Bend And Not Break
by Gene Kelly
Summary: What happens when the one person you can't live with, is the one person you can't live without? [Based on Persuasion] R&R!
1. As Time Goes By

Disclaimer: I'm not even sure if I own this plot. Haha.

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A/N: So here's the deal. I love Jane Austen, though I haven't read every single work of her's. After really needing a new story to stimulate my growing boredness, I decided...why not try and do a modern-retelling of a Jane Austen book? Since I haven't seen many on here, I decided to do Persuasion. Now, it's been a little while since I've actually read it, but I remember the story and the plot-line well. So I hope you enjoy this!

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Bend And Not Break

A Modern-Retelling of Jane Austen's _Persuasion_

I.

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The Elliot Family had always been a part of the socially privileged. Or rather, in more elaborate terms, the socially blessed by God. Armed with a family legacy and a sprawling estate that would have made Michael Jackson's _Neverland Ranch_ look like a trailer park, the Elliots had only known the fortunate hand of luxury and extravagant riches. Walter Elliot possessed a horribly swollen ego, which often interfered with the outcome of his daughter's lives.

At an intimidating height of six feet, two inches, a thinning patch of steel-colored hair and penetrating, azure eyes, Walter's external appearance of coarse and rough rigidity was a sheer contradiction to his vivaciously nosey and bubbly demeanor. Walter lived on gossip and was the type of person that wouldn't dream of missing an episode of _Access Hollywood._

If you suddenly demanded to know the exact details of Jennifer Aniston's messy divorce, Walter could spit out every useless fact, including the designer dress she wore to the court hearing. On the other hand, if you asked him the name of the current Secretary of State, the dizzy chap would only respond with haughty and stunned silence.

Walter had thrived in a world of imported wines and ridiculously overpriced, Egyptian bed sheets. He soared with stalwart pride whenever he mused about his VIP invitation to the Grammy's, or gazed fondly at his walk-in closet full of Armani suits and Michael Kors exclusive line of cashmere sweaters.

If thrust into the unimaginable life of the simple, working class, there was no question that he would experience more trauma than the time he couldn't find a date to P. Diddy's _Black & White_ post-Oscar gala. Oh the horror! The agony! Walter's relentless sense of patriarchal hierarchy was an overbearing monster that had gripped Elizabeth and Anne by the hair.

It was safe to say that Elizabeth, the eldest of the two, did not feel the full disadvantage of such an unfortunate parental influence. Elizabeth was practically Walter's right hand, happily indulging in the lavish extravagances of such a lifestyle. She was quickly becoming notorious for her many famous connections, as she clawed her way to the top of the socialite ladder.

Fortunately, Elizabeth had been blessed with good looks, no doubt in relation to their late-mother, who had divorced Walter and run off with the Hispanic gardener named Carlos. Just like her father, Elizabeth was long and lanky, towering over Anne's petite frame at 5'7. Flaunting a head of golden locks, alluring hazel eyes and a natural glow, Beth Walter was the definition of a heart attack on legs. A recent graduate of Columbia University, her interpersonal interactions vastly outshone her academic abilities.

On the other hand, Anne Elliot was the black sheep of the family. Calm, mild-mannered and a deep adoration for the fine arts and intellectual endeavors, Anne was a quiet beauty. Small and fair-skinned, the youngest Elliot daughter usually pulled her thick, dark chocolate waves into a ponytail or messy bun.

She cared little for designer wardrobes and housed a budding diagnosis of wanderlust. Her overwhelming, nearly black eyes were often vivid with the concealed emotions that she so expertly shunned from her facial expressions.

The taste of gossip was sour in Anne's mouth and she had a short patience for the nonsense that her father and sister usually discussed. Anne favored Jane Austen or Lord Byron over _In Touch Weekly _and was in love with the mere idea of love.

With an almost child-like infatuation, she still favored the classic Disney tales of romance, honor and chivalry, secretly wishing that somewhere in the great beyond, her own soul mate was waiting for her. Her rational side mocked her triteness, but she just couldn't shake the fantasy. It seemed that true love had once struck, but her family's strong persuasions had forced her to believe that it was a sham.

Anne was forever reminded of her blunder and not a day passed when she didn't dwell upon a certain someone named Frederick Wentworth. They'd met at a random dorm party, during her senior year at _NYU_. Anne had downed one too many Long Island Ice Teas and so happened to collapse into the outstretched arms of Wentworth. It had been love at first spew-after Anne had apologized for vomiting all over Wentworth's dirty Chuck Taylor's, he'd kindly helped her clean up and then escorted her back to her dorm.

As fate would have it, they kept running into each other during the course of the school year and eventually plunged into a crazy yet genuine love affair that words could hardly explain. Anne had nearly fainted with pure delight-for once in her life, she'd found authentic happiness, a little niche of heaven.

Wentworth was as absolutely gorgeous as he was intelligent-tall with a well toned build, sharp, forest green, brooding eyes, an olive complexion and a shaggy, mocha mane, Anne often wondered why she'd been the lucky one to snag his heart. He screamed divine beauty, while Anne believed she whispered overrated simplicity.

It was no surprise that many of her fellow female peers were green with envy as they watched the relationship blossom between Wentworth and Anne. It was an unstoppable force that no one had predicted. Now twenty-six and a struggling journalist, Anne often escaped to the haven of her room, in the Elliot Manhattan brownstone to muse over love's labor lost.

Memories of the courtship between Wentworth and herself were branded upon her mind like a tattoo. She'd recall snippets of their conversation or snapshots of long walks through Central Park, as they playfully bantered about a various array of topics, from T.S. Elliot to the latest _White Stripes_ CD.

However, Beth and Walter dismissed the positive aspects of the budding relationship, solely focused upon Wentworth's dismal financial state. Unlike the Elliot patronage, Wentworth was an orphan. Legally adopted at the tender age of three, Frederick Wentworth was a stranger to the lifestyles of the rich and famous, instilled with a _work hard, play hard_ attitude.

Lorraine and Jake, Wentworth's adopted parents, held respectable positions, Lorraine as a local elementary school teacher in Staten Island, while Jake owned a small art gallery near 42nd Street. The Wentworth Household was not extremely rich or extremely poor and was considered, by all means, comfortably middle-class.

Frederick excelled in school, especially in science and math, graduating at the top of his high school class and later getting accepted into the prestigious Law program at Fordham University. Curiously enough, during his junior year, he discovered that his true calling was the theater. It started out as a lark-he'd willingly signed up for the Drama Club because a few friends recommended the experience.

However, Wentworth usually spent his time painting sets, rather than performing under the harsh lights of the stage. One afternoon, the lead for _Hamlet_ had fallen victim to a bad case of pneumonia, thus sending the cast into a frenzy of hysterics. Wentworth had been the understudy, but didn't think he'd ever be called upon.

His belief was contradicted and three days later, he found himself flawlessly spitting out the troubled Prince's monologue about life and death. After relishing in the thunderous applause of the audience, Wentworth realized that the contagious acting bug was not a passing illness.

He soon juggled schoolwork and open-casting calls, recruiting a booking agent as soon as time and his wallet allowed. It was senior year that Wentworth got offered the part in the exclusive Woody Allen movie that would launch his career and it was senior year that he decided to drop out of school.

It was fairly easy to comprehend the total disgust and spite that the father and elder daughter generated towards Anne's object of affection. In her transfixed eyes, he was simply perfect. In their scornful eyes, he was perfectly poor. Like the days of the old English aristocracy, Walter and Beth Elliot considered themselves of the higher caste, turning their already pointed noses up at anyone below their standards.

Wentworth's first offense was the inevitable fact that he wasn't born into riches and the second offense was his disfavored career path. Perhaps if he had continued with his studies and become a successful lawyer, the father and daughter would have reconsidered their prejudiced notions.

As it was, Wentworth was deemed unworthy to even _look_ at Anne and they frequently voiced their unwanted opinions about the lawyer in training turned thespian. Although Anne, in terms of her personal philosophies, was unconventional, she still held a fierce attachment to her family and valued their opinions, no matter how irrational they were. Anne constantly battled her emotions for Wentworth and the guilt she carried, rooted from her family's misguidance.

On top of this was the shrill discourse of a certain Ms. Russell, long-time family friend and pseudo _Dear Abby_ to Walter. Once quite pretty in her youth, Ms. Russell lived alone with her twelve thoroughbred cats, in a handsome brownstone a few blocks from the Elliot estate. Her beady eyes were always mixed with affection and stern criticism, her self-righteous ethics acting as lethal propaganda.

With the abandonment of Mrs. Elliot, Ms. Russell had attempted to act as a surrogate mother, always offering her womanly "wisdom," whether or not Anne or Elizabeth asked. Somehow, knowing that this woman was her mother's best friend, created an obligation in the mind of Anne, to obey her.

Unlike Wentworth, who was violently independent, Anne could only blame her incipient innocence for the dreadful mistake she'd committed. Just before graduation, Wentworth had proposed under the twilight of Central Park.

Drowning in her parental ties and inner woes, Anne had remained stoic when she'd rejected him. Hurt beyond witness, Wentworth had heaved the Tiffany ring in the nearest trash can and stormed out of the park, ignoring Anne's wild pleas and shaky sobs. The next day, he'd whisked off to California, to begin shooting for his movie.

Anne had never spoken to him since, though she'd easily been able to keep track of his career. And now here she was, stuck in the same old place, life revolving around the same old parties with the same old, shallow fools, while Wentworth was traveling the world, capturing the hearts and minds of strangers alike, living and breathing the very excitement and vivacity that Anne longed for, something that could never be achieved no matter how many volumes of Whitman or Frost she idolized.

It was the bitter fact that he'd once loved her, only her, which stung the most. Now that Fred Wentworth was mingling with Hollywood's Best and Brightest, surely he would never feel the need to contact simpleton and stuck-up Anne Elliot, ever again.

Once a carefree twenty-something, Anne was veering towards latter adulthood with a pessimistic yet refined state of mind. Granted, a small piece of her still remained too trusting of her relative's opinions, but she was beginning to understand that persuasion, no matter the good intentions, could be a very dangerous and detrimental power.

It was the day that the Elliots were cleaning out their beloved brownstone, when Anne's entire world flipped-upside down. Due to Walter's endless love of non-stop partying, gambling and pricey trinkets, the Elliot family was forced to move into a more modest home, until they could gain the money to buy back their house. After failing to pay many fines due to bad checks and faulty credit-card bills, the IRS had finally seized the Elliot's 1.6 million dollar penthouse, in compensation for the owed money.

Ever the optimist, Walter was quickly able to find another apartment, although not on Park Ave. but still in Manhattan. Elizabeth had continuously complained about sharing a bathroom with Anne, but had quickly ceased her whining when she realized they were two blocks away from Burberry.

Anne was isolated in the depths of her old room, lazily and regrettably browsing through mountains of old photographs. Many were stuffed into envelopes, collecting dust in the scrapbook she'd long ago stuffed under her bed. Many were taken during the last two years of her days as an NYU alumnus.

However, there was one photograph that her fingers ceased to drop. It was a rather haphazard snapshot she'd taken of Wentworth, in her very room. He was sitting upright on the bed, his wonderful hair a rather wonderful mess, spilling over his chiseled cheekbones like extra limbs or ink blots on a luminous page.

He was gazing off at the traffic, his profile pensive and intense. But a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, as though he knew a secret that not even Anne knew…a secret that was too good to keep smothered in darkness.

The only light had been provided by the camera flash and the intentional shadows outlined the underlying knowledgeable remorse of his youthful face, as though he knew their relationship was too pure too last….maybe they were doomed from the start. A train on the wrong set of tracks, without a purpose or direction, unable to halt because the break lines had been severely snipped by a chainsaw.

Yeah, maybe that was it. He'd been too perfect…too magnificent…too much of everything. Guys like that certainly didn't end up with girls like Anne Elliot, with half-mad Fathers that liked to dress the family dog in Prada baby booties, snobby sisters whose harsh mockeries could send Joan Rivers running with her tail between her legs and an estranged Mother that preferred to ditch the chaos for a Mexican gardener that barely spoke English. Ah yes, life was grand, wasn't it?

Anne was silently mourning the past, when Elizabeth waltzed in, her five inch BCBG platforms obnoxiously clattering on the polished hardwood boards. The room was essentially bare; all the furniture had already been taken out. The only things that occupied the space were Anne and a river of cardboard boxes, waiting to be filled.

The blonde-bombshell was dressed even for the grand occasion, showing off her newly tanned legs with an Anna Sui micro-mini and a cotton-candy pink, Dolce & Gabana tank top. Her makeup was expertly executed, highlighting her naturally pouty lips and long eyelashes. Her swan-like neck was drowning in David Yurman, gold necklaces, as if to contradict their black and white testament to a downward spiral of financial instability.

If Anne didn't know better, Beth appeared as though she were going to attend some edgy fashion show, rather than about to move out of their house. Elizabeth paraded around the room while Anne folded up the picture, and then gently tucked it into the back pocket of her Citizens of Humanity, five-pocket low risers. Maybe Wentworth had erased their torrid romance from his memory….but everything they had shared was too painfully real to ever block out from Anne's cluttered mementos.

"Well, you'll _never_ believe what I just heard from Olivia!" her sister declared in a smug tone.

Anne resisted the urge to roll her eyes and sprung to her feet, warily studying the placid yet every alert Beth.

"What?"

"Fred Wentworth is shooting his new movie right here, in Manhattan! Can you believe it? I mean, what are the odds? Plus, Olivia heard from Gretchen, who heard from Wendy, who heard from that really cute waiter at the Tribecca, that he's staying at the Waldorf Astoria! That's right across the street from our new brownstone!"

Anne's eyes widened with unfiltered shock, months of cherished recollections smacking into her conscious like a neural-charged movie reel.

First, she recalled Wentworth's amused yet horrified expression as she introduced herself, then promptly shot out a handful of sirloin steak and alcohol all over his size eleven feet. Second, she mentally reenacted the moment when they'd first kissed, and she'd sworn she started to see sparks. And finally, Anne's line of vision detected the lemon-scented cleaning product, just before her waxen face connected to the unforgiving floor.


	2. But For Now, I'll Look So Longingly

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

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A/N: A big thanks to all my reviewers: _valin, Chamomile Lady, songsiren, ArwenEvenstar83 and slam a revolving door._

Glad that my first chapter didn't suck…too much. Haha. Yes, I changed the title from _Based on A True Story_ to _Bend And Not Break_, because I thought it suited the synopsis better. Here's the next chapter…read and enjoy!

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When Anne regained consciousness, she was quite surprised to lock eyes with the overly concerned gaze of her father and the worried yet rather bored expression of Elizabeth.

She discovered that she'd been propped up against a heavy box, her father having shoved a small bag of smelling salts underneath her nose. The dizzy girl placed a gentle hand to her temples, massaging out the continuous spells of inexorable vertigo. She let out a weak sigh and turned to her father and sister for information.

"Ah, Anne, my dear! Glad to see that you're all right. Lizzy came rushing down the hall, going on about how you'd up and fainted!" Walter cheerfully proclaimed, as though he'd just won the lottery.

Anne shifted her gaze to Elizabeth, who had taken a spot on her opposite side.

"One minute, I'm telling you about Wentworth, the next minute, you've fallen to the floor! Honestly, Anne, I thought you were having a seizure or something," Elizabeth tittered, furrowing her expertly-shaped brow.

Walter whirled his head away from the invalid daughter and to Elizabeth. He frowned, not bashful about showcasing his apparent disapproval.

"So that's what this little episode was about, that dreadful Wentworth character?"

Anne shut her eyes at the sound of her his name. It'd had been years ago….and yet, her heart still endured the resulting torture of nostalgic regret and longing.

Oh, how she had tried to erase Frederick Wentworth from her mind, her memory, and her soul. But some despicable force had decided to forever grasp his image, even the feel of his weathered fingers as they interlaced with her petite hands. Was this how she was to be repented for her sins of parental persuasion? Elizabeth and Walter failed to notice Anne's distress and continued to bicker about their old acquaintance.

"Well, Daddy, Wentworth has actually improved since the last time we encountered him. He's a big movie star now; he's got about three or four estates, one in London, one in the Hamptons, one in Paris….why, it's a wonder that just a few years ago, he was a college drop out!" her sister snootily defended, using her fingers to count Wentworth's properties.

Walter's disposition did not yield to Elizabeth's modest praise. He scratched his chin, resembling a man in deep and intellectual thought, though his mind was buzzing with no such sentiments. Granted, Wentworth's newfound fame and fortunes had certainly stimulated his budding interests, but his confidence had not matched this wonder.

"That, to say the least, is wonderfully spectacular."

He mulled this over for a few more seconds and then abruptly focused on Anne. The rounds of unwelcome lightheadedness had abandoned her, but now Anne was itching with the urge to get up and make a beeline for the door. She was tired of listening to her father and sister's irrational and silly laments and dearly wished she could steal a few moments in peaceful isolation.

"Anyway, darling are you almost finished? We've got to finish packing so we can move by tonight. Lizzy's nearly done," Mr. Elliot tenderly questioned.

Anne hastily nodded, rising to her feet like a newborn colt. She placed her hand against the wall to steady herself, visually sweeping the room as she noted what she still had to pack.

"Just a few more boxes and I'll be all set. Don't worry," she faintly informed.

Elizabeth and Mr. Walter gracefully headed towards the door, as though they were 17th century, English aristocrats about to depart for a fancy ball.

"You sure you're all right, Anne?"

She threw him an artificial smile, beseeching his removal with the cordial wave of her hand.

"I'll be fine."

Mr. Elliot mirrored the curve of her lips and then left, Elizabeth in tow. As soon as she was positive of their absence, Anne shoved her hand into her pocket and retrieved the photograph of Wentworth. Fondly gazing into the face she couldn't forget, she wondered if Fate would bestow its appreciated prosperity and allow the paths of one Anne Elliot and Frederick Wentworth to cross again.

* * *

The move deemed to be easier than Anne had initially expected. Wordlessly, bulky men carelessly picked up the boxes that contained the past twenty-six years of her life, while her father and Elizabeth dutifully trailed on their heels, mimicking royal subjects walking down a red carpet.

The drive in the BMW proved to be uncomfortable, as father and daughter chattered away, completely indifferent to the significance of the matter, preferring to discuss the number of bathtubs in the brownstone.

Once Anne was certain that all her belongings had safely arrived to her new room, she decided to run to Starbucks and grab a coffee. Afternoon had long ago blended into the dominance of a rather clear night, so Anne opted to travel by foot.

Granted, Starbucks was situated a mere two blocks away, but Mr. Elliot would have insisted that Anne use one of their highly expensive cars. In the opinion of Mr. Elliot, this would be a surefire method to flaunt his wealth to his fellow neighbors and dispel any floundering rumors about the family's total bankruptcy. Every moment in life was an opportunity to showcase the Elliot financial value and Walter Elliot was born the type of person to fall victim to this mantra.

The night failed to yield storm clouds; the air possessed a certain chill. Tucking her scarf tighter into her Chloè overcoat, Anne politely pushed through the lingering crowds, her Stella McCartney, kitten heels clacking against the uneven cement.

A few bystanders allowed themselves to openly gape at her, no doubt recognizing her face, though rarely spattered across _Page Six_. She ignored their rude gestures and continued walking.

Anne was the opposite of both her father and Elizabeth. She loved the serenity of mystery and privacy; she rarely allowed herself to be caught in the harsh glare of flashbulbs.

When she finally arrived at Starbucks, she was greeted by a snail-like line. However, this didn't shake Anne's mild-mannered temperament and she settled behind a weary stranger.

The line moved without mercy and the seconds turned into stretched minutes. Lost in her own thoughts, Anne nearly jumped when Mrs. Russell croaked out her name. Coincidentally, the stranger in front of her had been the family friend.

Dressed in head to toe Alexander McQueen, Mrs. Russell had not neglected to please a few of her beloved cats, thus allowing three of the twelve to travel in her obscenely large Louis Vuitton purse. Her synthetically mocha hair shimmered against the florescent lighting and Anne could correctly guess that the woman had just come from a hair appointment.

"Oh, Anne darling! What are you doing out, all by yourself, at this time of night?" Mrs. Russell chided, though mixed with a fair amount of tenderness.

Anne studied the line, inwardly cursing at its staggering length. Who knew how long she'd be forced to endure Mrs. Russell's _Joan Rivers_ extravaganza. Although she normally respected the criticisms of Mrs. Russell, adding the weight of tonight's previous events, Anne just wasn't in the right mood to handle the verbal warfare.

"We just got done moving into the new brownstone. Its a few blocks from here. I decided to go get a coffee."

Mrs. Russell gravely nodded, as though the pair were discussing Napoleon's battle tactics. Anne wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

"Still, a young, wealthy girl such as yourself, parading around the streets of New York? Why didn't your father lend you the Mercedes?" the elder woman chastised.

Anne sheepishly smiled, silently commanding the line to go faster.

"I walked out before he got the chance. I'm fine, Mrs. Russell, really. I've lived here all my life, I know New York almost like the back of my hand."

It was quite true; in all actuality, despite the widespread prejudice that Anne was a naïve Princess that only knew the route to Barney's and Saks, she had quickly learned the optimal ways to sneak out of the house, during her rendezvous with Wentworth.

This meant a lot of window crawling, fire escape clambering and fifteen minute bus rides with ten o' clock shadowed bus drivers. It'd all been worth it, though. No matter the undesired feats, it'd always be worth it, just to see his smile up close.

The line shuffled forward, as bleary-eyed, Wall Street business sharks spat out their caffeine powered orders. Mrs. Russell obliged and then turned around to commence conversation.

"Well, I believe you dear, but trust me, it's a big city. Anything can happen."

She paused for a moment and then wryly smiled.

"Speaking of which, I hear that Wentworth fellow is a skip away from your new house. He was such an unpleasant young man, wasn't he? Always coming around your penthouse, unannounced. Why, in my day, a suitor would ask permission _before_ entering a lady's house!" she wistfully recalled.

Anne nodded, keeping a painfully straight face. She wondered if any other customers were laughing at their outrageous exchange. It was events like this, which Anne believed enforced the image of egocentric frivolity of the rich and semi famous.

The unfortunate aftermath proved to be that Anne would be branded with this label. Wentworth had made her realize she needed to break away and shatter this egg-shelled cage. And that was something she'd always respected and admired about him…the fact that he could look beyond her financial patronage, the inherent habit to judge people not by external factors, but by their heart and personality. With this in mind, she felt the strong inclination to defend his honor.

"You haven't heard, Mrs. Russell? Fr-Wentworth is a movie star now. He's worth millions, if not trillions. He's doing very well for himself. I think he just bought his parents a new house. And he's really talented too. His last picture was nominated for two Golden Globes and an Oscar!"

Anne realized she was babbling, so she promptly shut up.

Mrs. Russell pondered this revelation for a good minute or two, stroking the insistent heads of her three cats. After a moment, she fixed Anne with a slight smile, still hanging on to her ancient discriminations but somewhat convinced by her strong-willed defense.

"Ah, I suppose so. Still, dropping out of Fordham to pursue _acting_? I'm afraid that's a stain that won't wash away with forgiveness and time."

Anne clenched her teeth and pretended to take this comment to heart. Much to her relief, it was finally Mrs. Russell's turn to order. After paying for her small, black coffee and bran muffin, she said a warm goodbye to Anne and then waltzed out the door, a swirl of _Elizabeth Taylor_ perfume.

Anne secured her order, paid and then breezily strode through the door. When she finally reached her new home, she stood in front of the doors, unwilling to surrender to an early slumber.

She eyed the building across the street, coolly sipping her large coffee. The Waldorf-Astoria blazed with hundreds of lights, almost like the annual Christmas tree in Rockefeller center. With a sigh, Anne wondered if one of them was shining for Wentworth.


	3. The Way We Were

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

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A/N: As usual, you guys are nothing short of wonderful. Thank you for reading and reviewing!

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After a long day at _The New Yorker_, Anne was willing to curl up into a ball and quickly surrender to a peaceful slumber. However, this idea was thwarted, when she walked through the penthouse door and was assaulted by the loud chatter of her father and his lawyer.

Though the brownstone was considerably smaller than their original place of residence, the lavish furniture, eye-popping paintings and electronic equipment certainly caste aside this observation. Anne carefully treaded into the living room and was not surprised to find her father entertaining Mr. Shepard, over glasses of Absolut. Upon her entrance, Mr. Elliot lazily snapped his attention towards his daughter, fixing her with a purposeful smile.

"Ah, Anne, darling! Mr. Shepard and I were just discussing our little…situation. He thinks it would be best if we rented out Kellynch. Don't you think that's a splendid idea?"

Mr. Elliot proclaimed this as a sure-fire statement, rather than an opinionated suggestion and thus, Anne knew that the only option was to relentlessly agree. She nodded, throwing her father a weary smile, wondering how she could sneak away without being rude.

"Sounds smart. Have you discussed possible tenants?"

Mr. Shepard interrupted before Mr. Elliot could form a sentence. A lanky gentleman of modest birth, Mr. Shepard had not been born into the excessive luxury like the Elliot family.

However, after completing his undergraduate degree at Cornell and receiving his master's degree at Yale, Mr. Shepard was a well-respected and well-sought out lawyer in the entire state. He'd been with the family for a few years and despite his class prejudices, Mr. Elliot seemed to consider Mr. Shepard as more of a trustworthy friend or comrade, rather than a passing acquaintance.

"Personally, I think a gentleman of government or military rank would be the best choice for occupation. Unlike other men of various professions, these types of men are taught to live with a manner of order and punctuality. If you want your brownstone to remain in its original state, this is a safe bet. And a military man is always on the go; before you know it, he'll be gone and you can move back into Kellynch Hall," Mr. Shepard crisply rationalized.

Anne nodded, slightly amazed at Mr. Shepard's quick and precise logic. It certainly sounded like a perfectly reasonable course of action with the most favored outcome. However, Mr. Elliot frowned and voiced his protests.

"I was never that found of the government. We've got imbeciles running our country and you expect me to allow their presence in my own home? I can't abide to your suggestions, my friend."

Mr. Shepard cleared his throat and folded his hands as if in prayer, ready to heartily defend his position. It was without a doubt that all those years of standing in a courtroom had easily influenced his manner of speech in everyday life.

Anne took this as a signal to leave and failing to announce her departure, hastily marched to her room. The sounds of tinkling tumblers and booming, male voices dominated the halls until Anne softly shut the door.

She flipped on the lights, welcoming the flood that shattered the bleak darkness. She glanced at her queen-sized bed, surprised that a definite slumber suddenly wasn't so appealing. With a feeble sigh, Anne walked over to her polished desk and plopped down, shaking the mouse to revive her Sony laptop.

Anne discovered that she'd received two e-mails while at work. The first was something marked **URGENT** from Mrs. Russell and the second was from her best friend in The Hamptons, the widowed Mrs. Jane Smith. Anne reluctantly opened the e-mail from Mrs. Russell, her eyes haphazardly scanning the correspondence like a restaurant menu.

* * *

_Dearest Anne,_

_I've got some positively **wonderful** news to share with you! Mrs. Leigh from the country club has informed me that a certain gentleman, named Admiral Croft, is ready and willing to take residence at Kellynch Hall. I know that your Father turns his nose down upon men of government or military standing (though I can't differ from such an objection), but this man appears to posses a very weighty fortune, one that could even match the Elliot wealth. _

_Apparently, he's much respected in his line of duty and carries excellent recommendations by everyday civilians and official representatives alike. He's married but doesn't have any children, which is also a big plus! Just think no little hellions to mark up the beautiful walls or stain the carpets! Finally, he seems to have connections to our circle. His brother-in-law is a certain….Mr. Wentworth. Now, I know that I previously declared my disdain for such a fellow, but I was gathering research about his background and-_

* * *

Anne didn't even bother to finish the letter. Mouth wide open, she reread the verbal bomb that had been detonated.

_A certain…Mr. Wentworth._

If Admiral Croft was related to Frederick, there could be a very high possibility that he would stop by Kellynch Hall. And although they had moved, Kellynch Hall was less than four blocks away. Which meant, instead of flouncing all the way to the Waldorf and looking absolutely silly, she could casually "bump into" Fred and…

Her thoughts automatically trailed off, the words and syllables melting into thick puddles of uncertainty and embarrassment. Once again, she had allowed childish fantasy and solid reality to harmoniously intertwine. Yes, it would be an asset to be closer to Wentworth and more logical purpose for their random reunion, but it would be quite ridiculous to rekindle such a relationship.

She could still recall the pained expression on his face, the rage boiling behind those beautiful eyes…why would Frederick Wentworth even _look_ at her again, after the hell they'd endured? It was a silly idea, a silly dream. Anne had always prided herself on being a fairly logic, sensible person, but when the matter pointed to Wentworth, all of this admirable virtue self-destructed. Anne blankly stared at the screen for a few more minutes, and then deleted the e-mail.

Mrs. Russell's information proved to be valuable and thus, she would pass the news to her father at a later time. However, this didn't mean that she was obliged to inform him about the Admiral's relations to Fred. Anne opened Mrs. Smith's e-mail, hoping that it would be filled with such writings that would take her mind off that damned Frederick Wentworth.

* * *

As Fate would have it, or perhaps it was a sadistic deed by Murphy's Law, Anne would be granted her internal wish. It had been a few days since Mr. Shepard's visit and Mrs. Russell's e-mail. Anne had dutifully relayed the message to Mr. Elliot. After discussing the stipulations with Mr. Shepard, Mr. Elliot had agreed to the letting of Kellynch Hall to the Admiral and his wife.

The couple had surveyed Kellynch, immediately falling in love with the high ceilings and atmosphere that reeked of considerable wealth and good fortune, thus signing the lease on the spot. Mr. Elliot had certainly been wooed by the Admiral's courtesy and his wife's southern belle hospitality.

His discriminations and hostilities towards the government and military had been forgotten and he welcomed the Croft's to the new brownstone, whenever the mood struck them. Indeed, Mrs. Russell's gossip had not been faulty and the Admiral lived up to his legendary expectations.

Upon completion of this financial transaction, Mr. Elliot and Elizabeth suddenly decided that it would be a fantastic idea if they vacationed in the Hamptons. Mr. Elliot decided to extend an invitation to his newest flame, a Mrs. Danica Clay.

Mrs. Clay was the daughter of Mr. Shepard and only a few years older than Anne. With a sprinkling of freckles, an uneven complexion and a rather odd taste for loud, dominating makeup, Mrs. Clay was the stereotypical, slightly classy but mostly trashy, high-class socialite. She failed to inherit the esteemed intelligence or common sense of Mr. Shepard, and her tendency to whine usually made Anne literally wince.

Anne suspected that Mrs. Clay clung to Mr. Elliot due to alternative motives, such as improving her social and economic status, but Elizabeth and her father were deaf to her judgments.

Before the start of their mini-vacation, Elizabeth dragged Anne to a party for the grand opening of the city's newest hot spot, a club named _Pure._ Located somewhere in the depths of SoHo, her sister was absolutely giddy at such an opportunity to mix and mingle with New York's finest.

Elizabeth smugly rattled off the names of the stars and heiresses that would make a much wanted appearance at the function, though Anne wasn't listening. Anne wondered if Wentworth would show up, but immediately dismissed this thought as a whimsical notion.

At exactly 10:10 PM on a lively Friday night, the two sisters hailed a taxi and fifteen minutes later, had easily barreled past the gigantic line of eager hopefuls and had thrust themselves into the claustrophobic yet stylishly inspiring environment of _Pure._

Well, actually, _Elizabeth_ had once again thrust herself into the spotlight. The second she spotted Paris Hilton, Elizabeth muttered something to excuse her departure and then flew to the bleached blonde's side. Anne waved to a few vague faces and then shuffled to the bar, like a crippled solider.

Claiming an empty stool, she turned her back to the throbbing dance floor and snatched the attention of the bar tender. Anne wasn't much of a drinker, but her limited taste for the occasional alcoholic beverage didn't equate total abstinence. Without a second thought, Anne ordered a Cosmopolitan. After slapping down a few bills, Anne sipped at her drink like a thoroughbred cat, lapping at her milk.

Yes, despite her ignorance to the party scene, it was fairly effortless to tell that _Pure_ was a hit. The DJ was spinning the most recent tracks to top the charts and vivacious twenty-somethings crowded the floor, oozing through the walls, sprawled across couches and booths like intoxicating slime.

The lighting was naturally dim and seductively musky, faint fog emerging from some unknown origin. Anne studied her sister with a slight smirk. Elizabeth fit right into her world of diamonds and artificial smiles. Decked out in a short denim skirt and three inches of fabric, she'd already acquired a small crowed of followers.

Anne looked down at her own outfit, wondering she looked as odd and out of place as she felt. Granted, she hadn't arrived in a floor-length ball gown, but her form-fitting, Valentino, jet-black cocktail dress looked like something for the Golden Globes, rather than the opening of some edgy club. Shoving a lock of her softly curled tresses behind her ear, Anne took a hefty gulp from her crystal glass.

"I should never have come," she mumbled to herself.

However, before she could launch into a round of verbal flogging, a familiar voice stopped her heart. She knew the owner of the hesitant question before she even had to face him. For years, she had replayed that voice in her mind, like a dearly cherished lullaby. For years….she had only imagined…

"Anne? Anne…Elliot? Is that you?"

Anne slowly swiveled around in her stool, not knowing whether to grimace or grin. Clutching her glass so hard she believed it would shatter, she took a moment to respond.

"Hello Frederick."


	4. Heart In A Cage

-Disclaimer: I don't own anything. And as much as I'd like to, I sadly don't own Wentworth. Haha.

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A/N: Once again, I'd like to thank all the reviewers for their support and encouragement! Thank you all for reading!

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_Please don't touch me_

_I've come too far to let you bring me down_

_He's thinks that I'm easy_

_But try as you might you can't have me now  
_

_These tedious dances we run through _

_I've memorized them now  
_

_I quietly melt down _- _She Wants Revenge_

* * *

Anne willingly drank up the unexpected sight of Frederick Wentworth, allowing her eyes to discreetly study his D&G jeans, barely clinging to his hips, the black Lacoste polo that stretched across his broad and toned frame and the way his tumultuous hair caressed his flushed face, shifting with the slightest movement, like tin wind chimes. 

However, Anne attempted to block out the coldly polite smile that adorned his lips. She shifted in her chair, tugged on her dress and nodded with confirmation.

The music pounded in her ears and the song had changed from Beyoncé's newest single, to an underground smash by the band, _She Wants Revenge_. Anne couldn't help but smirk at this fitting irony and decided that her responses would be filtered, based solely upon Frederick's behavior.

Though she was still aching for the mere sensation of his touch, she wasn't about to shatter the illusion of confident aloofness. She refused to allow Frederick Wentworth to break her. Lord knows, he'd done it once. And in her book, once was certainly enough.

"Wow. Anne….you look…nice. What are you doing here?" Wentworth cordially demanded, using that same tone of detached stiffness.

Anne shrugged, pausing to take a sip from her Cosmo. Frederick hadn't changed since the day she'd stomped all over his heart. The breathtakingly rugged, yet beautiful features still encompassed his face, his inner hostility masked by years of conditioned manners.

There was so much she wanted to say to him, to confess. And yet, she was forced to indulge in their game. One wrong move and she would have placed herself in the line of fire. Maybe her unfortunate experience with Wentworth had left her a little weak, a little drained. But there was no possible way that _he_ could ever know.

" Elizabeth dragged me here. Her last night out and about before she leaves with Dad. They're taking a vacation to the Hamptons."

Wentworth nodded, his eyes hollow and emotionless. It was like staring into twin lakes, consumed by rotting tree stumps and pounds of pollution. The magnificence of his orbs had been fully tainted by the ugly streaks of his malice.

Anne had learned to understand Wentworth's unspoken thoughts by the revelations of his eyes. It was quite startling to gaze into the very same ones and realize that her key had been revoked.

"Ah, I see. And how is your father? Still indulging in the perks of the filthily wealthy? I saw that yacht he bought a few months ago. Quite the beauty. How much do you reckon that cost? More than _I _could ever afford, right?"

Although his tone was fallaciously friendly, Anne could easily detect his boiling animosity. Wentworth was too respectful to ever come out and directly insult her with derogatory language, or such a manner of speech that would evoke overt offense. However, being blessed with quick wit usually signified that this humorous charm could hastily transform into mean-spirited sarcasm, if intended for a foe.

Anne's stomach churned at such an idea. Had she really altered from friend to foe, by such a single gesture of rejection and dated so long ago? Would they ever be able to overcome their bitter obstacles and converse like civil adults, without constantly recalling adolescent heartbreak?

_Great, he absolutely despises me. Can this night get any worse? In fact, can my life get any worse? _

"My father's doing fine. As for your irrelevant question, Frederick, I won't bother to offer insight. You see, I'm not the type of person that cares to gossip about the expense of other individuals. All the money in the world can't buy respect, trust or love."

Anne wondered if she should have edited her response, especially the closing statement. She had vowed to steer away from references to their past and yet, somehow, Frederick had managed to reel her in like a naïve trout. Inwardly wincing, Anne fixated her former flame with a tight smile, taking an even larger gulp of her thinning drink.

Wentworth offered her a crisp laugh, automatically picking up on her hint and not bothering to believe its veracity.

"Yes, too true a philosophy. However, I've come to find that the majority of people fail to follow such principles. You see, being in the movie industry has taught me to scarcely extend the privilege of trust to people; many people are prone to say one thing and do another."

Anne's breath clogged her throat like a hook. And like a hook, it ripped at the walls of her esophagus, tearing everything in its destructive path. Their verbal sparring had completely moved from simple small-talk to a deceptive declaration of chaotic warfare.

He had turned from indirectly attacking her father and her family, to heaving missiles at her the very content of her character. She had to remain strong; she couldn't yield to his wolfish mockery. The music continued its lethal waltz, the words ringing in her ears like sirens.

Wentworth stared at her in mild curiosity, an expression that lacked all regret. No, she couldn't give him a free viewing of her own self-disintegration. It was just the thing he craved, the thing he wanted. If it was a fight he wanted, she would deliver a battle.

For some sickly disturbing reason, his baseness could not thwart her attraction to him. She had hoped that lest they ever unite, she would immediately be turned off by his expected, cool behavior. But the fact that he refused his remorse to overpower his fiery strength was almost admirable….and somehow, strangely seductive.

Anne cleared her throat and finished the rest of her beverage.

"Well, maybe their actions sprout from good intentions. Not everyone is motivated simply by ill-will or vengeance. People make mistakes; humans were not born perfect. I can't help but feel sorry for you, if you condone such skewered ideals," she icily defended.

Wentworth shrugged, as though he was indifferent to the entire subject.

"It's better to be cynical than optimistic. That way, you'll never have to face disappointment," he ardently whispered.

Anne's shoulders sagged, comprehending the full weight of his pensive anger. They locked eyes and she silently commanded herself not to blink. It was like a mouse trapped in the deadly gaze of the lion, an insignificant prey ensnared in the hypnotizing glare of a snake.

His lips parted; ready to form some unknown sentence, the syllables sticking to the roof of his mouth. She allowed her attention to remain solely on him, encouraging the launch of his next verbal weapon. She witnessed something flicker behind his eyes, a glimmer of something that wasn't filled with hate or passionate fury.

The indescribable something permitted a weak flag of hope to be pitched next to her banner of pessimistic sorrow. But Wentworth ultimately decided that whatever he wanted to say would be best left unborn. With a sigh, he glanced at his watch and then apologetically shook his head.

"Jesus, it's late. I've got an early morning call-back tomorrow. If you'll excuse me, I've got to run. Tell your father and Elizabeth I wish them well. Goodbye, Anne," Wentworth replied, annunciating her name as though it were a disease.

She nodded, knowing that the wishes of good welfare were in passing civility.

"See you around," she quietly replied.

He looked at her, those eyes returning to their state of reserved emptiness, saving the action of blinking until the very last second. She watched him struggle to part the crowds, waving amiable departures to familiar faces.

The blackness of his polo melted into the darkness of the atmosphere, carrying with him all the unanswered questions that lingered on her cluttered mind.

She watched him long after he had gone, wondering if his excusal had been genuine or a mere tactic to abandon their conversation. She watched for minutes after, her mouth stretched into a blank rectangle, like a red line in the sand.

Turning back to the bar, she flagged down the bar tender and immediately ordered a rum and coke.

* * *

Elizabeth and Mr. Elliot ordered a sleek, town-car. Around 10:30 AM, the following morning, Anne awoke to the sound of luggage being heaved down the stairs. Elizabeth shouted and caused unnecessary commotion, as she threw herself into a state of despair, when she couldn't locate her Jimmy Choo sandals.

Anne tried to block out the noise and shoved a pillow over her head, but it was useless. Thankfully, after a quick farewell, Anne kissed her sister and father goodbye. Around 11:45 AM, the parent and older daughter hopped into the car and peeled off into the morning sunlight like two stars, hoping to escape the paparazzi and rabid fans.

Anne was rather grateful that she would have the house to herself, no matter how long or short their trip and soon found that she enjoyed a sense of alien relief. The city had long ago been bursting with life and with a timid smile, Anne strolled over and threw open the bedroom window. She was greeted by the honking of cars, the wail of the occasional siren and the off-key chirping of various birds. Without restraint, her eyes wandered over to the towering mass of The Walfdorf.

She watched as various people of all ages, shapes and sizes, streamed out of the revolving doors, many with cell-phones pressed to their ears.

Her eyes instantly widened when a look-alike Wentworth breezily marched through the exit, sipping on a large coffee and wolfing down a bagel. In fact, if she had been closer up, she would have sworn it was Wentworth. Both pedestrians had the same lazy, yet confident gait, the same lean yet muscular body and build, the same distinct allure….

Anne bit her lip and then turned away from the scenery, last night's catastrophe still fresh in her mental movie reel. There was absolutely no need to spoil her first morning of freedom, by dwelling on that horrible Frederick Wentworth. It would only result in a headache.

As an afterthought, Anne shuffled into her bathroom and popped a pair of Tylenols. Washing it down with water, she wandered into the kitchen. After rummaging around in the cabinets, Anne decided to have a bowl of cereal and a helping of fruit.

As she poured a stream of milk into her bowl, the phone rang. Anne lunged for the cordless set and peered at the caller ID. With a sigh of slight irritation, she accepted the call and put the receiver to her ear.

"Morning, Mary."

Anne's younger sister, Mary Elliot Musgrove, had met Charles Musgrove at a swanky, Manhattan brownstone party, for all the young and edgy directors, screenwriters and playwrights of the city. Mary was an aspiring actress with less than stunning talent and expertly used her social connections to land various bit parts and walk-ons.

However, Mary attempted to put her trivial acting skills to work, mistaking Charles for Charlie Kaufman and using her powers of flirtatious persuasion to secure a staring role. This plan, fortunately or unfortunately, depending on perspective, backfired. Mary ended up falling head over heels for Charles and despite her disingenuous intentions, Charles returned her sentiments.

Though Charles, himself, was not as wealthy as the Elliot's in their prime reign, the Musgrove lineage was affluent and a prominent part of the city's socialite patchwork. Charles had attended the obligatory prep school ( Exeter to be exact), graduated NYU with high honors and then quickly secured a job at the New York branch of Paramount Pictures.

Charles was slowly but steadily rising up the corporate ladder and both families envisioned a CEO title in the foggy future.

Incidentally, Charles and Anne had endured a lengthy courtship during their incipient days at NYU. Mr. Elliot giddily speculated that the pair would marry right after graduation, but Anne just didn't love Charles as much as he loved her. Having no desire to lead him on, Anne ended their relationship at the end of their sophomore year.

Charles didn't have any hard feelings, though it was understandable that he wasn't itching to jump from a relationship to solid friendship. Anne had always respected his character and his generally pleasing disposition; she often conjectured that the match between her shrill, attention-seeking sister and the easy-going, film executive, was quite surreal.

Mary and Charles lived near Park Avenue, strategically located near the district that was always noted for its candid influx of celebrities.

"Oh, Anne, darling, so glad you picked up the phone! I tried your Black Berry last night, but you didn't respond. Anyway, darling, I have a terribly huge favor to ask you," her sister cooed, in a fake falsetto.

Anne rolled her eyes and gingerly shoveled a spoonful of _Frosted Flakes_ into her mouth.

"Go on."

Mary sniffled and then continued.

"Well, I've just come down with the most horrible cold, and I was wondering if you could come up to the brownstone and stay a few days. Charles is very busy, doing God knows what for Paramount, so I rarely get to see him. The substitute nanny is an absolute terror and she doesn't do _half_ a good a job as Veronica."

"I gave her a vacation, you see, because she's going to have her baby any day now. Anyway darling, it would be a big help if you came up here and stayed awhile. The kids absolutely _adore_ you and I'm sure that they'd listen to you, more than that horrid Lisa."

Mary's voice dripped with cheesy sophistication, like a badly acted Audrey Hepburn, in _Breakfast at Tiffany's._ Anne swallowed her cereal and choked back a chuckle. In some ways, Mary was even worse than Elizabeth.

She was always complaining about her ailing health, though she'd recently turned 23 and she'd never even caught the chicken pox. Not a day went by without some wail of distress, whether it was from a head cold to a bruised collarbone.

Mary was a walking disaster, though these disasters were mostly figments of her wild imagination. Despite all these errors against the good of her character, Anne failed to uphold genuinely hostile feelings or enmity towards her sister.

"All right, I guess I can swing by. Why don't you go to the doctor, if you feel so ill?" Anne suggested.

Mary laughed, as though Anne had recommended healing a broken leg with strawberry marmalade.

"Darling, don't be silly! I may have money, but that'd be ridiculous to waste five hundred dollars on prescription Advil, when I can have Lisa pick some up from Brooks. No, I just need a few days of rest and I'll be quite all right. Besides, you know how much I hate the hospital," she playfully chided.

Anne sighed, not even dreaming of protesting. Once Mary got an idea into her head, she wouldn't let go. Besides, maybe this miniature excursion would do her good. That way, she wouldn't have to wake up and look across the street at Waldorf, entertaining juvenile notions about Wentworth.

"When do you want me to be there?"

Mary laughed again with foreshadowed relief, knowing that Anne was helpless to reject the proposal.

"Oh, as soon as you can! Thank you so much, darling. You're an absolute angel, you know that?"

Anne rolled her eyes, cradling the phone against her ear as she tossed her empty bowl into the sink.

"What are sisters for?" she questioned, with sickly sweet hospitality.

"Well, I'll see you when you get here! It looks like Charles Jr. just ran into the table, again. God, I think I'm going to get a leash for that little hellion! And did I mention how much of a _darling_ you are, for putting up with me? Anyway, come as quickly as you can! I have some things to discuss with you, about that Wentworth fellow!"

Anne's sarcastic smile quickly fell to the floor. Muttering a goodbye, she hung up the phone.

It appeared that although Anne Elliot was ready and willing to forget about Frederick Wentworth, the rest of the world had other plans.


	5. This Bitter Pill

Disclaimer: You know the drill. (I hope).

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A/N: Hey guys! Once again, thank you for everything and thanks for reviewing. Here's the next chapter.

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The following afternoon, Anne was nestled into the cracked taxi seat, her eyes never straying from _Jane Eyre_. After packing the necessary belongings, Anne had phoned her father and Elizabeth, letting the pair to know about her intended travels. Both Mr. Elliot and Elizabeth displayed indifference and Anne made the phone call as short as humanly possible. As she indulged on the escapes of Jane and the obvious tension between her boss, Mr. Rochester, Anne prayed that she wouldn't be detained at the brownstone. 

Though typically connected to her angelic patience, Anne could only tolerate Mary for a certain amount of time. Though she somewhat prided herself on her steel woven fortitude, steel could always be melted by a burning torch. Mary Elliot certainly qualified as that wretched torch. The taxi came to a screeching halt, the driver narrowly missing a young boy on a yellow bike.

Anne sighed and marked her place, then got out to retrieve her luggage. Unlike Elizabeth, Anne was a very light packer. She assumed that her stay at Mary's brownstone wouldn't stretch longer than two weeks; thus she easily pulled her single suitcase and nylon duffel bag out of the trunk. Peering at the toll, Anne calculated a generous tip and then handed her money to the driver.

As soon as Anne shut the door, the taxi peeled away, hastily absorbing into the busy line of cars, buses and other cabs. Anne stared at the sprawling estate (or at least in Manhattan perspective), in front of her. The brownstone was taller than it was wider, feverously challenging the height of a small apartment complex. The brick was worn yet vibrant, giving off an air that only the sophisticated and rich could covet. Anne took a minute to scour her surroundings.

There was nothing but fancy brownstones for blocks and blocks; the only stores that stood were couture clothing boutiques, a bank and a real estate agency. This was definitely the ritzy part of Manhattan, without the glaring sign.

However, Anne assumed that any citizen crossing into this district could feel the shift of socio-economic stability. It was as though an invisible gate separated these select individuals from the rest of New York. Anne faintly rationalized that this peculiar point of view was probably how the rest of the average, everyday population applied against the Elliot family and found the fact a bit unsettling.

However, before Anne could fully dive into her thoughts, a smartly dressed doorman burst through the front of the house and bumbled down the steps. A tall, lanky stature was dressed in pair of crisply pressed, black slacks, polished dress shoes and a button-down, vibrantly white shirt. He couldn't have been any older than her father. The doorman threw her an endearingly bashful grin and attempted to snatch her bags.

Anne felt the usage of servants was quite ridiculous and a reflection of insipid laziness. She was perfectly capable of carrying her own things; she wasn't a cripple. Just because her family possessed a healthy fortune, didn't mean she had the power to order people around.

Despite external influences, she firmly believed that money was a worthless judge of actual character. Anne tried to protest but the doorman shook his head. With a reluctant sigh, she followed him up the steps and through the door. She was instantly hit with the smell of lavender and fresh apples, an odd yet comforting scent. Anne could tell that the cleaning lady had recently stormed through; everything was sparkling and shiny.

"Ah, Miss Elliot. I'll take your luggage for you and bring them to your designated room. They will be outside the door. Mrs. Musgrove is in the parlor, trying to get some rest. Go right in," he replied, in a very formal tone.

Anne nodded and then headed down the hall, then took a sharp right. The doorframe opened into a magnificent living room, furnished with a plasma TV complete with digital cable, Dolby surround sound, XBOX 360 and fully equipped entertainment system.

In the back of the room, tucked into the corner, was a baby grand piano. The lid was shut, a yellowed score from the ballet production of _Romeo and Juliet _carefully placed on the surface.

The color scheme consisted entirely of beige and off-white, from the dazzling, thick curtains, Italian leather sofas and matching loveseats. It was overt that Mary was in charge of this set-up, but Charles had managed to express his taste, with the indications of the various abstract, framed paintings, mainly by Picasso. Everything screamed excess and wealth, almost more obnoxious and disgustingly smug than the decorum of the Elliot brownstone.

Mary was sprawled across the sofa, her head propped by a silk pillow, as well as her slipper-clad feet. For someone that was supposedly "deathly ill," she contradicted this notion. Her honey colored locks had been flat-ironed and sculpted into a complicated, French Twist on top of her head. Instead of the standard bathrobe, she was dressed in a DKNY pants suit, adorned with dry-cleaning creases.

Her face was bare, with the exception of lipstick and brown eyeliner. All in all, Mary gave off the illusion of a weathered business executive, resting between appointments, rather than a sick house-wife. Though she wasn't as beautiful as Elizabeth, Anne always assumed that her younger sister also surpassed her own looks.

Both Elizabeth and Mary fiercely guarded a certain allure that effortlessly tempted the general male population. On the other hand, Anne perceived herself as those dreadfully cringe worthy adjectives such as "sweet," and "cute." Rarely had she encountered a person of the opposite sex, which truly deemed her gorgeous or stunning.

Anne stepped into the threshold, her sneaker-housed feet automatically sinking into the plush carpet. Delicately clearing her throat, she situated herself into the armchair across from the sofa.

Mary didn't bother to open her eyes, but pressed her hand to her heart and smiled.

"Oh, Anne darling! So glad you could make it! You had a pleasant trip, I suppose? And Victor took your things to your room?"

Anne nodded, looking around the room.

"The traffic was busy, but that's expected. And yes…your doorman took care of my baggage," she answered.

Her younger sister continued smiling, looking like a delirious patient enduring an overdose on laughing gas. Sunlight poured through the Baroque-style windows, spilling golden rods onto every shadowed surface, spewing all over Mary's perfectly coiffed head.

"Wonderful. Oh darling, I've been all alone! Charles is out and about, no doubt schmoozing with all the major players of Hollywood. And I've been trapped in the house, without anything to do, anyone to speak to, trapped by this dreadful cold. Lisa took the kids to school; that's the only plus I can think of."

She said this as though she'd been running a marathon, airily and faint, mimicking Marilyn Monroe's trademark vocal gesture.

"Well, what seems to be the problem? Is there anything I can get you?" Anne wondered, slipping into a motherly role.

Mary finally opened her eyes, slightly shaking her head.

"You're a doll, really. I've already taken some Tylenol, it should last the rest of the day. Actually, there's a bottle of Cristal in the fridge. Round up some champagne flutes, one for me and one for you. Then bring it all in here, would you darling?"

Anne sported a watery smile, internally laughing. Only females of the Elliot family would deem it appropriate to heal a splitting headache with a hearty flood of alcohol. Anne obliged and stood up. Having memorized the layout of the brownstone, she easily found the kitchen.

After rummaging around the cabinets, she grabbed two glasses, the bottle and then headed into the living room. Mary appeared to have been blessed with temporary relief; she sat fully upright, her eyes beadily fixated on the TV, which was showcasing _General_ _Hospital_

As soon as Anne made her presence known, Mary pretended to feel suddenly faint, easing back into the cushions, allowing her throat to rumble with a weary moan of agony. The older sister couldn't help but snicker and pleasantly delivered the requested drink.

Mary lapped up her helping like a parched dog, and then poured herself another glass. Anne sipped at the Cristal, admiring the sweet taste, though she wasn't greedily burning for an endless assault of the liquid.

"So, Anne, darling. I _know_ you must have bumped into Wentworth at Pure. Was it dreadfully awkward? Did he say anything to you?" Mary hungrily persisted, focusing her attention on her sister.

Anne shifted in her place, putting the glass on the coffee table to her left side. Anne had never informed Mary about her unfortunate meeting with Wentworth, but guessed that Elizabeth had been the culprit. It was a well-known observation that her other sister was incapable of keeping a secret. Especially if it involved a celebrity.

"Lizzy squealed, didn't she?"

Mary frowned, and then waved her hand, like the matter was smoke irritating her ski-jump nose.

"Don't be silly. I was reading _Us Weekly_ and I saw your picture. Well actually, it was a few shots of Wentworth and an "unidentified socialite." They couldn't seem to get a clear view of your face, but I just _knew_ it was my darling, big sister! I mean, really, I recognized that Valentino dress from five hundred yards away. I was there when you bought it."

Anne nodded, took another swig of champagne.

"Ah, I see."

Mary grinned wickedly and went for her third glass. Leaning forward, her widened eyes attempted to yank the truth out of her Anne.

"C'mon, that's all you've got to say? Darling, you know I'm not going to let you get away with this! Considering your past with the man, something must have happened. I heard he's been dating that Russian model. Isn't she barely eighteen? Or what about that accusation from Page Six, that he got caught snorting lines in the bathroom of Cream? Utterly despicable, though it's to be expected of someone like that!"

Anne knew that Mary was absolutely salivating over the speculation. Just like Elizabeth and her father, she was a victim to the greedy intoxication of gossip. Mary used gossip like a drug addict uses heroin; she experienced a tainted thrill from knowing every detail about perfect strangers.

Mary refused to tear her gaze away from her sister; with the additional sea of sunlight, her smile was like the sun trying to devour the moon. Anne really didn't want to elaborate on the subject.

Though it had occurred nearly a week ago, it was just another consequence to add to her tangled list. Just another consequence of listening to her father, her sisters and Mrs. Russell and thus cutting loose the only person that ever understood her.

Anne opened her mouth, ready to dance around the topic. However, she was saved. Mary perked up, as her cell phone emitted a shrill whistle. She threw Anne a look, and then took the call.

"Oh, hello sweetheart! No, I'm fine. Anne's here and she's been an absolute darling….Yes….Yes….What…Are you serious? All right, well I'll have to call up the caterers and tell Lisa she's going to work overtime. No, no, we have enough….but if you insist….All right darling; I'll see you when you get home. Kiss, kiss!"

Mary ended the call, and then tossed the phone on the couch.

"That was Charles, calling from the office. You'll never believe this, but he had a meeting with Wentworth today and the pair got along so well, Charles invited that heartbreaker to our house, for dinner!

Naturally, he knows I can't cook to save my life, so I'm going to have to call up the catering service and get Lisa to stay longer, so the kids won't get in the way. And oh darling, I've just _got _to call up Henrietta and Louisa and perhaps Charles's parents would care to stop by…."

Mary rambled off, swept away in her excitement, instantly forgetting about her intended interrogation. Anne paled at the news, her stomach muscles clenching into a sneer. Pressing her hand into her abdomen, she muttered an excuse to Mary. Her sister nodded and picked up her phone, fingers flying as she dialed number after number.

Anne bounded the stairs two at a time, feeling sicker by the second. She instantly spotted her room and clumsily burst through the door, promising to put away her luggage at a more convenient time. She threw open the adjoining bathroom door and splashed her flaming face with some icy water.

Anne steadied herself, stared into the mirror and then turned a nasty shade of moss green. A minute later, the remnants of breakfast had been graciously presented to the clear water of the toilet. Five minutes later, Anne wandered back into her room and shoved her face into her pillow.

And without apprehension, she opened her mouth and screamed.

* * *

At precisely 8:35 PM, Anne was still barricaded in her room, attempting to find the right outfit. Someone had turned on the stereo and a soft jazz tune floated up the stairs, along with the clipped chatter of the guests.

With amazing agility and velocity, Mary had managed to beat her illness, arrange the caterers, call up the Musgrove house, take a shower, go shopping for a new ensemble, get her hair done and then come home before the start of the dinner party.

It was to be decided that Henrietta and Louisa, the younger sisters of Charles, would accompany Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove to also dine with Frederick. Anne didn't really mind the company of the elder Musgroves; both were polite and well-mannered, usually favoring agreement rather than discord.

However, Anne suspected that Henrietta and Louisa were younger versions of Mary and Elizabeth. Both girls were seventeen and recent graduates of a stuffy, all-girls boarding school. Henrietta was planning on attending Princeton in the fall, while Louisa was excited to enroll in Harvard.

Mary was currently downstairs, looking very much the designated, billionaire arm candy, parading around in a slinky Dior dress, while giving orders to Lisa and attacking Charles Jr. and Matthew with combs and Paul Mitchell hair gel. Normally, Anne wouldn't have made such a big fuss about getting ready.

However, now that she'd gained the knowledge of Wentworth's intended appearance, she was experiencing mental disintegration. As supercilious as it sounded, she just _had_ to look good. She had to look like she hadn't been burned by Wentworth's previous fiery disposition, that she was utterly content with the state of her life. For once, she wanted to be the one turning heads. Or rather…

Anne let out a groan, throwing a charming, yet rather conservative, Rampage dress to the floor. There was a sharp knock on the door and she slithered over and welcomed the intruder.

"Anne! You're still not dressed?" Mary demanded, with a frown of disapproval.

She sighed, her eyes scouring her messy room. Dresses, shoes, tops, skirts and blouses had been carelessly flung everywhere, creating a second carpet.

"I'm sorry; I know everyone is probably waiting. But I just can't seem to find anything to wear."

_Or rather, something that doesn't make me look like someone's little sister.._

Mary allowed her domineering frown to fade and she waltzed into the room, careful to avoid the various clothing items, like a ballerina dancing the nutcracker. She scratched her chin, and then picked up an A-line, Ben Sherman skirt and an Express, maroon polo.

"What about this? Casual, yet still sophisticated," she hopefully ventured.

Anne crinkled her nose.

"No, it's all wrong for this sort of party. I mean, this sounds really preposterous but I'm tired of looking cute. Or sweet. Or…_nice_. I just want to look…I just want to appear…"

She trailed off, biting her lip, fearing that she'd let too much of a hint be exposed. Mary, though not particularly witty, instantly snagged the bait. That wicked grin of hers pressed onto her lips, she latched onto her sister's arm and dragged her towards the open door.

"C'mon darling, I have _just_ the thing…"


	6. Ring Of Fire

-Disclaimer: Same old, same old.

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A/N: Many, many thanks to all the reviewers! I'm glad you guys like what I've written so far. Here's the next chapter, a well deserved segment of Anne/Wentworth goodness that I know you've all been waiting for...

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**I fell for you like a child**

**Oh, but the fire went wild...-Johnny Cash**

* * *

Although Anne had previously cocked an eyebrow at Mary's fashion choice, she couldn't protest with the mini-makeover. She had immediately gotten to work, muttering to herself and throwing things over her shoulder without a second glance.

Anne slouched in the doorframe of her sister's room, feeling totally exposed and uncomfortable, wishing she had just pretended to pull a Mary and "play sick." Finally, after what seemed like a century, Mary emerged from the catacombs of her walk-in closet, revealing a breathtakingly beautiful, yet classic, Ralph Lauren design. Issuing a pearly gleam that would make Vanna White jealous; she chucked the dress at Anne.

"Put this on. Now. And then we'll take care of your hair," she ordered.

Too weary to digress, Anne went into the connecting bathroom, slipped on the dress and then walked back into the bedroom. Mary giggled with glee, clapped her hands together and then shoved Anne into her previous location.

Twenty minutes later and one narrowly avoided hairbrush to the noggin, Anne was gazing at herself in the floor-length mirror with extreme astonishment. When she'd held it up to her torso, the dress gave the impression of being crudely small. However, when she'd glided it over her head, the dress fell just below the knee, resting above her shin, fashioned in the typical cocktail style.

It was strapless, silky and form-fitting, almost like a corset without the lace or tightening constrictions. It created a lovely silhouette, accenting curves that Anne never knew she produced. The top design accentuated her chest without appearing trashy.

The bottom portion flowed like the gentle rocking of the Caribbean waves, moving with her body at the least twitch. The dress had a peculiar shade of velvety blue; the crushed navy bewitched her deer-like eyes, adding a hint of shadowed color to her orbs.

Anne thought that her fair skin would ruin the intended effect of the dress, but she had been agreeably proven wrong. Her complexion glowed with dewy illumination, like a present day Snow White.

Mary had straightened her sister's wavy hair and then clipped it back with a silver barrette. The simple action made Anne look older, though her youth lay dormant and intact.

For makeup, Mary focused on Anne's startling eyes, accentuating the almond outline with eyeliner, and then finishing the look with smoky eye shadow and curling mascara. A bit of foundation and blush had been splayed across her angular cheekbones, then lipstick and sheer gloss to her mouth.

For shoes, Mary feared that sky-high stilettos would wrongly personify "sleaziness," due to the length of the dress, therefore lending Anne a black pair of her BCBG kitten heels.

Finally, with the exception of crystal studs, Anne shyly displayed a marvelous and costly necklace of a single, yet mammoth diamond, the color of a fresh marigold.

The diamond had been cut into a tear drop and threaded through a droopy, oval chain, frosted with tight-knit, miniature diamonds. It strategically rested in the middle of her chest, rising and delicately falling as she inhaled and exhaled.

The two sisters were silent as they looked into the mirror, one beaming with pride at her work and the other stunned with delight and surprise.

Mary was the first to break the silence. She gave her sister an affectionate pat on the back, resting her chin on her smooth shoulder.

"Darling, that fool Wentworth won't know what hit him."

* * *

A few hours later, dinner was over and the guests passed the time by conversing and drinking in the living room. Anne had barely spoken a word to Wentworth and the sentences that had been exchanged were polite, tense and clipped; Anne hated walking on eggshells with him, but it was the only appropriate battle tactic.

He looked utterly delectable, dressed in Calvin Klein khakis, a rather chest hugging, steel colored, AC/DC, concert shirt with blood red writing, and a jet-black, Burberry blazer. A skinny tie, matching the writing of the shirt, was thrown in for good measure, haphazard and loose, as though he couldn't be bothered to properly tighten it. Anne couldn't help but sneak a couple of discreet glances at him, as Wentworth and Mr. Musgrove (Sr.) discussed the best places to fish.

Everyone was lounging around on the couches, talking a little too loudly due to the plentiful servings of imported wine. Lisa, the head maid, had ushered the kids to bed hours before.

Naturally, Henrietta and Louisa were cattily vying for the attention of Wentworth, who clearly saw the situation as an amusing predicament. Anne pretended to listen to Charles complain about long office hours and his cranky CEO, but watched with disgust as Louisa hastily scooted closer to Wentworth.

_God, if she moves one more centimeter, she'll be sitting on his lap!_

The two girls had shown up in purposely shredded, designer dresses that could have been raided out of Paris Hilton's last season closet. Both were quite pretty, but whatever beauty they possessed had been crushed by their apparent determination to raid Mommy's makeup bin.

Anne rolled her eyes as Louisa glared at Henrietta, who had successfully stolen away Wentworth's momentary attention. Suddenly, a familiar song wafted through the $3,000 speakers. Frank Sinatra began "The Way You Look Tonight" and Anne clenched her teeth, hoping to block out the memories.

**She could picture him, whispering on the phone. **

_"Anne, I've never felt this way before…with anyone." _

**She could see him, gazing down as they walked through ****Central Park.**

_"Anne, I think I'm falling in love with you…" _

**She could see his face, his bare back, her hands as they brushed against his broad shoulders, his hips colliding with her own. **

_"Oh God, Anne, you don't know how long I've wanted this…" _

**And finally, she could see him, the day she'd made the biggest mistake of her life.**

_"Anne! I don't understand? How could you do this to me! Will you fucking look at me?" _

Her eyes began to water, not due to emotional pain, but the physical anguish as her incisors missed their toothy target, thus slamming with the side of her cheek.

The song continued on, Charles continued to blubber with glazed eyes, Mary let out a string of shrieking laughter and Wentworth lazily brushed away a curl from Louisa's cheek, with an equally lazy yet seductive grin. It was as though the filet mignon that she'd eaten at dinner had resurrected itself from the digestive graveyard; Anne felt unwell, just like when she'd initially heard about that night's dinner plans.

_Who did I think I was kidding? I'm not strong…I'm not over him…I'll never be over him, especially if we keep running into each other…_

"I'm sorry Charles, I'm not feeling well. If you'll excuse me," she bristly interrupted.

Charles looked right at Anne, as if seeing her for the first time, and then nodded.

"Right, right. I hope you feel better."

Anne tightly smiled, stood up and then made a break for the stairs. She could feel heads turn as she mutely departed, but she didn't care. She dashed into the bathroom at the end of the hallway, feeling satisfied when the click of the lock echoed in her ears.

Anne slid out of her heels, her eyes challenging her subconscious to reveal their genuine feelings, threatening herself to let go and cry, daunting her inner child to break down and sob. But nothing happened; her eyes remained dry.

She placed a hand on the mirror, the other hand touching her right cheek. This had to be a bad dream…what were the odds that _he_ would show up…what were the odds?

She had been battling this heartbreaking demon of regret and grief for years…she had been trying to run from the pain and the fear and the hurt…and had smashed into a brick wall.

It was wholly evident; he wanted nothing to do with her. And he had every right to be angry, every right to hate every fiber of her being. She had never really given him a true explanation; she had never really explained the entire circumstances.

She was essentially a coward, a coward shivering and huddling in wolf's clothing, attempting to give off this bravado of courage and blind, valiant confidence. But inside, she had reached the breaking point.

She was a walking zombie, living off dead memories and ghostly whispers. The florescent bulbs were harsh and devoured whatever positive energy that had been stored on her face; Anne suddenly burned with the desire to sit and sleep for days.

Though it was impossible, she could have sworn she detected the criticizing whispers of the downstairs patrons. Everyone was commenting about her…everyone knew….and worst of all, Wentworth was sadistically feeding off her insecurities, feeding off of it like a vampire pressing his cold lips to his victim's throbbing throat.

_Wentworth.Anne.Wentworth.Breathtaking.Persuasion.Iloveyou,isn'tthatenough.Wentworth,please.Fool.Canyoubelievehim.Mistake.No.You'reamazing.Buthe'snotoneofus!Down.**It'sover.** _

The words ran together like ink dribbling down a page during a tsunami, forming jumbled mud puddles at her feet.

Her voice emerged rugged and throaty, as though she'd smoked too many cigarettes too quickly.

"Stop…just stop…Jesus Christ….STOP!"

Rationality murdered by her zealous rage, Anne picked up the clay, soap holder and with surprising strength, chucked it at the vanity mirror. Anne was quickly brought back down to Earth, as she gasped and stepped away, shielding her face from the flying fragments.

Biting her bottom lip, she studied the particles of glass, scattered about the counter top and the floor, brainstorming possible excuses for her appetite for destruction. Before she could fully formulate a response, the door rattled with a sturdy knock.

Anne was paralyzed by terror and glanced around the windowless room, dumbfounded.

"Uh…just a minute!"

The knocking promptly stopped.

"Anne…..is that you? Are you all right?"

She submitted to deathly silence.

_Damn you. Damn you, Frederick Wentworth._

"Anne? Please, just open up."

Knowing that she was cornered and defenseless, Anne sluggishly maneuvered her way across the short area, unfastened the lock and swung open the door.

Wentworth looked past her tiny stature and paled at the sight of the abundant glass. He stepped inside and shut the door. Anne had no choice but to become entrapped in the room, once again.

"Jesus Christ, what in the blazes did you do?" he demanded, more concern than irritation swelling in his voice.

She stared up at him, this man that had forever seized her heart out of her chest, only to feed it to a waiting blender. She gazed up at his God-like frame, wondering if she dared to walk past him, without a word, and walk out the door.

"I-….nothing. It was an accident," she hoarsely confessed.

Wentworth frowned, shaking his head. They had to be about three feet away, but it was too close. On wobbly legs, Anne crept up against the farthest wall, barely missing a bundle of pointy glass. Wentworth automatically reached out, though hesitant to make connect with her skin, his eyes sweeping down to the floor.

"Watch it! You almost stepped on some glass."

She shrugged, overcome by the random urge to smoke the hell out of a Camel. And she didn't even smoke. Go figure.

"Whatever," she bluntly replied.

Wentworth stayed in his spot, his hand flopping to his side.

"What's wrong? I mean…You seemed all right at dinner," he uneasily coaxed.

This casual surveillance was just the thing to twist Anne's apathetic grief into venomous combustion. What right did _he_ have to actually care about her welfare? He certainly hadn't expressed the least bit of sincere concern when he'd jumped down her throat at Pure. And his behavior towards Louisa and Henrietta could certainly contradict this little sentiment. What a hypocrite, what a liar.

At least she had been civil; craving a truce more than a declaration for a psychological holocaust. What _right_ did Frederick Wentworth posses, which entailed that he should waltz right back into her life and pretend everything was all right?

She leapt up, feeling taller than she actually was.

"Oh, you're lying through your teeth and we both know it. You haven't said two words to me, let alone observe my disposition to confidently asses my mental state! You know, why don't you get back to playing your little mind games with Louisa and Henrietta. By now, I'm sure they've sent out a search party! God, all those movies you do aren't enough, are they? So you've got to wear a mask and put on a show for my sister and everyone else!" she seethed, dauntless and wild, sprouting with uncontrollable passion.

Wentworth was stunned for a moment, and then allowed his lips to curl into a sinister sneer. Tip-toeing around the glass, he loomed in front of Anne, appearing like a ravenous lion about to smother his prey with his monstrous paw. Anne had the sinking feeling that she should be afraid, but all she felt was a compellation of sorrow, hard malice and frustration.

"Don't flatter yourself, baby. That little Ice Princess of Park Avenue Routine is getting old. And maybe things would be different, if you weren't so easily swayed by the prejudices of your idiotic father and snotty sisters!"

Anne matched his glare, noting that Wentworth looked even more livid than the night she'd dumped him. She supposed this was what God must have looked like, when He'd realized that His Archangel had transformed into The Devil.

"Go ahead, Frederick, blame everything on me! Christ, will you get over yourself? That was more than two years ago! Why can't you grow up and act like an adult for once? You seem to think that my decision was on a whim! You seem to think-"

Wentworth took another heavy step closer, menacing and breathtaking, in all his violent beauty.

"Would you stop and listen, for once? Listen to yourself, Anne. Listen and tell me if that makes any sense. Yes, it _was_ more than two years ago. But it's not everyday you fall head over heels in love with a woman and then she rips out your heart! You deceived me; I thought you felt the same way! But no, you were stringing me along the entire time. What? Was I a fling, some meaningless fuck, something to wet your appetite, quell your thirst before Daddy secured your arranged marriage to some millionaire, oil tycoon?" he heatedly thundered.

Anne relished in her newfound strength, encouraging the birth of such an emotion, feeling like an old battery that had been recharged.

"You heartless bastard. I can't believe you'd have the NERVE to say such a lie. I loved you as much as you loved me, probably even more! You're so blinded by your wounded ego that you can't clearly see the entire picture. I gave you everything, Frederick! I gave you my heart, my soul….for fuck's sake, I gave you my body…and you have the disgusting** AUDACITY** to spit in my face? Just get out; your Prince Charming act is about four years too late."

Wentworth advanced towards Anne and she internally heard warning bells dispatch. How much closer was he going to inch? They were nearly nose to nose now….there wasn't any room left to conquer.

Her breathing increased, following the complicated rhythm of her erratic heart. He was so close…so painfully close….anger leisurely melted into desire and the insane yearning to touch him….

He inched his face closer….purposely edging in slow motion. He was going to torture her, torture her with that violently gorgeous face of his, those lips that were slightly parted.

Anne remained glued to her spot, her limbs stuck to her sides, wanting to leave as much as she wanted to stay. She could practically taste his breath now, as it caressed her cheek, billowing down her bare neck. Oh, this was absolute torture, she couldn't take it, she couldn't take it….

She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the kiss that never came. Instead, Wentworth pressed his mouth against her ear, so delicately that she almost believed she'd imagined the gesture.

She could practically feel him sardonically grin….she wanted to slash it off with a razor….she wanted to rip him, limb from limb, yet simultaneously, she wanted to collapse into his arms and float away into some clouded, great beyond.

She had realized what he'd said, after he'd recoiled.

"Consider your wish granted."

Before Anne could even open her eyes, Wentworth had disappeared out the door and down the hall, his feet failing to designate sound as they clomped down the stairs.


	7. The More I See You, The More I Want You

Disclaimer: Do I really need to say it?

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A/N: Once again, thank you for all the reviews! This is my first Jane Austen fic, so I'm glad that many of you think I'm doing her justice.

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Thankfully, the party soon ended after the heated spat between the old lovers. Anne embraced the entrapping isolation of her room, an old Tori Amos CD looped to continuously repeat the welcomed sounds of tainted love and Technicolor heartbreak. 

She couldn't believe that she'd lost her temper with Wentworth, let alone smash the vanity mirror. Anne had cleaned up the mess and fortunately, Mary had bypassed any formal interrogation to its destruction. Anne was deeply grateful that her younger sister dared not indulge her obsession to gossip and heckle; it was one less headache she would have to endure.

Anne listened to the polite smash of the door, as the guests departed. Her emotions were still vibrating with the stings and blows of the argument, her head refusing to enjoy serenity. It seemed like ages until she drifted off into a fitful slumber. It was utmost detestable, as though she'd been half-awake. The following morning, Anne awoke with a stiff neck and extreme exhaustion. She took a long, boiling hot shower, as though the suffocating temperature of the water would scrape away her sorrow and hidden discomfitures.

However, this was a plan done in vain. Anne had lost the fire of her pent-up passion, feeling nothing but the heavy excrements of regret and guilt, pricking like thumb-tacks. After changing into a fairly casual outfit, Anne headed downstairs, in search of a decent breakfast. At the same time, she constructed a speech in her head, a plea really, to leave the Musgrove penthouse and return to her own home.

She'd only stayed about a day, but it was enough. Last night had been a sour confrontation with a ghost of the past, a haunting demon which Anne only wished to block out and conquer. Thus, she could not bear to remain in such a place of residence that promoted the growth of failure. As Anne sat down to a plentiful breakfast with her youngest sister, _(Charles was working off a mean hangover)_, the chance to make a clean getaway was forsaken.

Living up to her self-imposed dictations of perfection, Mary was freshly showered and had changed into a cream colored, Prada pantsuit. Daintily cutting her eggs benedict, Mary smiled and ordered a request, which would only destroy Anne's plans of escape.

"I hate to beg but darling, little Matthew woke up with the most _terrible _cold. The poor little devil has a stuffing nose and he's hacking like a dog. I called the doctor and he said the best solution is a lot of rest. Can you imagine? I had to call the school and excuse him from classes! Anyway darling, it's quite an inconvenience, because _my_ Charles has a charity gala to attend. Everyone in the business is going to be there. And as his wife, it's essential that I accompany him….So darling, I hate to impose this upon you, but really, could you be a doll and baby-sit the little hellion? Little Matthew, that is! I mean, I probably would stay home, but you know how the business is…."

Her sentence was never finished, as she gazed at Anne with relentless perseverance. It was as though she were discreetly warning her sister to vocalize a challenge, because this action would simply be shot down. Anne melted her scowl into a tight smile, nodding as she poured ketchup over her scrambled eggs.

"Fine."

It was the only words she could utter, before slamming a spoonful of food into her open mouth. Anne feared that if she elaborated on her acquiesce, then she would spew a few words of hostility.

Knowing Mary, she would take this to the deepest offense and broach an argument, thus presenting Anne with another source of frustration. Mary let out a sigh of content, fully aware that she had gained a victory. Precisely cutting through another piece of egg, she offered her sister a wicked grin.

"So, what did you think about last night? Louisa and Henrietta had their claws out, no doubt. Though I must say, time has certainly treated Wentworth with great dignity and respect. Tell me, he seemed rather fond of their affections. Who do you think he'll choose? Louisa or Henrietta…Personally…"

Mary continued to babble about the events of the previous night, but Anne focused all her attention upon her steaming breakfast, successfully blocking out the spirited jargon of her younger sibling.

* * *

The moment Charles Musgrove Jr. began to wail with determined vengeance, Anne instantly regretted her inability to refuse Mary. The house was still as death, with the exception of the small child's screams. Both Charles and Mary had flounced out of the penthouse, issuing the single command of an appropriate bedtime. 

Dinner had been left to the fancy of the maid. Naturally, Anne was nearly forced to shove the food down the children's mouths, as they refused to eat their meals. Following a few hours of free time, Matthew and Charles were supposed to go to bed.

Lisa, the current maid in charge, had fortunately taken care of Charles. It was a little past eight and the boy was situated in his bedroom, engaged in a rather peaceful slumber. However, Matthew was putting up quite the fight.

Upon Lisa's sweet encouragement to lead him to his trundle bed, the little devil had sunk his teeth into her hand, like a vampire sensing open prey.

Lisa had howled with surprise and shaken the demon off, then gathered her coat and bag with humiliated scorn. Before Anne could offer an apology, she had slammed out of the house and signaled a taxi. Thus, Anne was left to the mercy of Matthew Musgrove.

Anne had quickly begun to suspect that Matthew's sudden illness had been an erroneous judgment, probably due to the influence of Mary's hypochondriac tendencies. Thus, her colorful exaggerations had probably swayed the doctor to rule such a diagnosis. Besides, who would really argue with the wife of Charles Musgrove?

So, Aunt and nephew were situated in the living room. The TV was turned to a program on Cartoon Network; Anne attempting to snatch the remote and guide the young child to his bedroom.

On the contrary, Matthew bounced up and down on the Persian cloth, decked out in his Spiderman pajamas, screeching with indignation, waving the remote in his gangly hand. Anne reached up, her petite frame still seeming to loom over Matthew, her hand groping for the control. Unfortunately, Matthew wailed louder and slapped her hand, squeezing his eyes with fury.

Anne was beginning to lose her cool, though she would never allow her emotions to break the surface. She knew if she let Matthew witness her unraveling patience, then he would have the upper hand. He would claim a victory and fly with the intoxication of accessing control.

"C'mon, Matt. Let's have the remote. You want to get better, don't you?" she demanded.

Matthew vigorously shook his head, continuing to bounce, as though he were weightless.

"No! I wanna watch my shows! You better let me watch them, or I'll tell Mother. And Mother won't like to hear about complaints!" he deviously blackmailed.

Anne sighed and shook her head. Matthew beamed, his mouth illustrating a gap-toothed smile. His golden head endorsed the lights, almost creating a dented, shadowy halo.

"Yes, but I'm sure your Mother wouldn't like to hear that you've disobeyed me. You need your rest, dear. You wouldn't want to stay in bed for another week! Then you wouldn't be able to watch _any_ television."

Matthew crinkled his nose, paused for a moment and then proceeded to leap, wildly flailing his arms in the general vicinity. Anne did her very best to avoid a direct contact with his loose limbs.

She made another attempt to grab the remote, but Matthew had foreseen her action. He stuck out his tongue and erupted with high-pitched giggles, prancing to the other end of the couch. Anne sighed, resting her hands on her hips. It was no wonder Mary didn't want anything to do with her own children; they were brats!

Aunt Elliot strolled over to the opposite end of the couch, sternly standing in front of her mischievous nephew. Fixing him with a beady eye, she issued another command.

"Matthew Musgrove, if you don't hand over the remote this instant, I'm going to tell your Mother about the bowl of ice cream you ate before dinner."

Matthew's eyes widened with sudden horror, fully knowing the unpleasant repercussions of such a violation. Although Mary was rather lax in her parenting skills, she certainly would not turn the other cheek to this broken rule.

Mary, true to form, was a health nut. She rarely touched chocolate, hated even the smell of baked goods and couldn't tolerate sugar in her coffee, unless it was Sweet N Low. She would certainly erupt into hysterics, if she discovered that one morsel of Low Fat Cookies And Cream had been spooned into her son's greedy mouth.

"Oh, please Auntie Anne. Don't tell Mother. Please?"

Anne resisted the urge to grin, knowing she had gained control of the situation. Though Matthew had been behaving like a spoiled brat, he definitely would not want to face the wrath of an enraged Mary. He foresaw that his little game was about to end.

"Well…."

Anne trailed off and as Matthew envisioned his awaiting fate, the door bell rang. Anne sighed, wishing that Lisa hadn't run out of the penthouse.

"Stay here, while I answer the door."

As soon as the order had been vocalized into the air, Matthew squealed with delight and then jumped onto Anne's back. She let out a small cry of surprise, clinging onto Matthew's calves, praying that he wouldn't tumble backwards and knock his head against the hard wood.

It was clear that Matthew wouldn't budge, so with dread, Anne waltzed down the hall and to the heavily sealed door. Peering through the peep-hole, she visibly paled when she set her sights upon the guest. With ginger effort, she punched in the code to unlock the door and then turned the handle.

Frederick Wentworth's million-dollar smile instantly vanished the moment he locked eyes with Anne. He stood on the stoop, drowning in awkward hesitation, her eyes failing to leave her face. Anne didn't know what to do, momentarily speechless.

Matthew, thankfully, was silent, studying the visitor with curiosity. Anne cleared her throat, clueless as to a method to start a simple question.

Naturally, Wentworth looked magnificently messy, as though he'd thrown on the first clean thing sprawled across the floor, his hair a clutter of rich darkness and prone to the turbulence of the city's breeze. He shoved his hands into the worn pockets of his jeans, his shoulders tightening under his Izod polo.

"Anne."

He failed to say anything more and Anne couldn't help but flush with nervous embarrassment. Matthew kicked her side, as though she was a weathered horse and she inwardly winced.

"Uh…do you….do you want to come inside?"

Once again, Anne couldn't decipher the meaning of this question, or the apparent explanation for such an offer, with the exception of a momentary testimony to insanity. Wentworth gulped, shuffled from foot to foot and then glanced down the block. With a quick jerk that passed as a nod, he took a few steps forward.

"Yeah, thanks."

The pair mutely scuffled into the penthouse, Anne leading the way into the living room. The hallway echoed with an electronic click, as the computer-programmed lock reset itself.

Although Cartoon Network continued to blare with obnoxious intensity, Matthew refused to forsake his position. Anne stalled in front of the couch and Wentworth didn't make a move to seat himself.

They exchanged glances, totally caught off guard, unsure of what to say or what to do. Last night's unresolved conflict lingered in the air like musty perfume and Anne knew they were both choking.

She knew he had valid claims to his anger. And that's what made it even harder to move on and even _pretend_ to hate him. Despite her own misgivings and worthy misfortunes, she ultimately had displayed a weakness of character, an error that could not be easily fixed.

Frederick Wentworth was not the type to effortlessly forgive and forget; to stand in the ill favor of Wentworth was such a gruesome fate to behold. Disgustingly enough, she almost wanted to hate him. It would make everything so much easier…

She caught him staring and quickly looked away, turning her gaze to the TV screen.

"What are you doing here?" she dourly wondered.

Wentworth sighed.

"I was looking for Charles. I wanted to review my contract with him, for an upcoming movie. But I'm assuming that he's out."

Anne nodded, finally having gathered the frail courage to meet his flint-like gaze. Matthew shifted around, squeezing her neck with newfound dynamism. Anne craned her neck a bit, hoping to loosen his stifling grasp. Matthew squealed with delight, and then focused his attention on the TV.

"Yeah. Mary and Charles went to a benefit gala. They left a few hours ago, so I suppose they won't arrive home until midnight, at the earliest."

"Oh. I see….You got stuck with the kids, am I right?"

His eyes shifted to Matthew with disapproval, and then back on Anne with a slight smirk.

She rolled her eyes, pretending to be numb to his inflamed sense of superiority.

"Naturally. But it's not a big deal," she casually confirmed.

Wentworth snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. His dazzling eyes danced with amusement, lacking his usual consignment of callous detachment. In the back of her mind, Anne wondered why her former flame was stretching the duration of his visit; he certainly could have left eons ago.

"Right. Whatever you say."

Matthew laughed, scampering in his place like a hyperactive monkey.

Anne scowled.

"I'll have you know, Frederick Wentworth, that I have the situation under control," she snapped, with lukewarm disdain.

Wentworth took this as an opportunity to openly chuckle, dropping his arms to his sides and inching closer to Aunt and nephew.

"Sure. And that's why he's practically crawling all over your back," he taunted.

Anne harshly clenched her jaw, beginning to feel irritated. Once again, Frederick Wentworth had the supreme impudence to stroll into her life and seize her reigns of control, using this as a chance to prove her inferiority and frailties of mind and wits.

It was so despicable and disgusting, the way he could show feelings of loathing and arrogant malice, then automatically switch these to playful and jovial jest. So infuriating….that she wanted to lose herself in a storybook kiss and forget about the rest of the world. God, she wanted him more than he would ever know…

"Look, I am perfectly capable of handling this by myself. Matthew is just being a bit unmanageable is all."

At this comment, Matthew roared with demonic laughter and commenced to brutally tug on Anne's hair. Anne couldn't resist the instant reaction of pain, as she crisply howled at the most foul sensation. Wentworth's throat erupted with a strange croak, as he suffocated a laugh like a blanket being thrown over a fire.

"Matthew. C'mon buddy, leave your poor Aunt alone. I think you've done enough damage for tonight. Besides, if you get down, I'll tell you about the time in Brazil, when that lion escaped from the zoo and….oh, never mind. You don't want to hear about it," he trailed off, his voice dropping.

Matthew's ears perked up like a dog. He ceased the activity of ripping out his Aunt's hair and slithered off her back, with the grace of a viper. His eyes bulging with wonder, he looked at Wentworth, his mouth a gape.

Anne instantly recognized Matthew's interest, silently thanking Wentworth for his successful rescue. Matthew stuck his thumb in his mouth, gazing up at Wentworth with sudden coyness. The ferocious drive to agitate had been demolished, all by the teasing evasiveness of Wentworth's tall-tale.

"No, I do! Would you tell me?"

Wentworth grinned.

"Ah, well, now that I've snatched your curiosity, you'll have to do me a favor. If you run upstairs and get into bed, I promise I'll come up and tell you everything."

Without further probing, Matthew yelped with delight and sped off down the hall, banging up the stairs like a jack rabbit. Anne smiled, though she was quite uncertain as to the true motive behind Wentworth's surprising action.

They faced each other, Anne attempting to subdue the reflexive tightening of her stomach muscles. He was so close….if only she had the foolish valor to make a move. She figured there was only one thing to do in such a situation.

"Thank you."

Wentworth shrugged, looking considerably awkward once more.

"Don't mention it. Wouldn't want you going bald now, would we?" he briskly quipped, with a lopsided grin.

Anne somehow forced a laugh.

"Of course not."

Wentworth strained his mouth with that same, warped grin and then painted his expression with the drippings of serious passivity.

"Look….about last night…"

She shook her head, wringing her hands together.

"Let's not talk about it, all right? I'm sure we both said some things we didn't necessarily mean. Let's leave it at that."

He grimaced, obviously pulling up bitter mental images of the topic. But his tone was forceful, as he spat out the words before he could retract or regret his statements. They seemed to leave a sour aftertaste on the roof of his mouth and he swallowed this unforgiving vinegar, plunging ahead in his attack.

"No, I just want to apologize. I know what I said was uncalled for and considerably rude. I admit, seeing you….it's been quite the shock. I just don't want to make this harder than it should be."

Her doe-eyes flashed with unusual stimulation.

"Yeah, I suppose so."

He noticed this change and seemed to recoil at her lightening bolts.

"You know, I'd better go bid goodnight to Matthew. He's probably dying to know my secret."

She could only present him with a wry smile.

He looked at her sideways, through a riveting curtain of fallen hair. She bit her lip, the need to come in contact with the smoothness of his cheek, increasing to a frightening extreme.

"Say, you got any wild stories an eight-year old might want to hear?"

She snorted.

"My mind is drawing a blank. But I'm sure your highly creative imagination can conjure up something appropriate."

They were silent for a moment. Anne inwardly flinched. Since when did he get so close? He had certainly adapted that guarded, predatory stance…yet this time around, Anne didn't feel the need to victimize herself and claim the ill-fitting label of the prey.

Granted, she wasn't as tough as she wished to be, but she was made of sturdier materials than false hopes and needle-thin pretensions. If he wanted to provoke her, she would stand her ground.

For so long after their messy affair, Anne had chained her heart and thrown away the key, choosing to exile herself in a glass tower. Wentworth had been the elementary stone to shatter this flimsy, delicate fortress. Yet this time, Anne possessed the ammunition to initiate a battle and defend her dignity.

"Anne…last night was…"

_So close…too close… _

"Stop bringing that up. It's in the past," she ardently murmured.

"The past….the past…is that all I mean to you now? Some long forgotten memory, buried in the past?"

She looked away and surprisingly, Wentworth reached out, his hands fiercely yet tenderly cupping the sharp angles of her jawbone. He obligated Anne to meet his gaze, his lips pressed into a waning streak.

Her gut was churning and turning. He had to stop this. It was too much all at once. He was heroin, that's what Frederick Wentworth had deemed to be. Regrettably, Anne had fallen victim to the alluring temptations of such a drug.

"What does it matter, Frederick? You've moved on, you've made that perfectly clear. Our relationship….died years ago. It's not….it's not going to revive itself. You can't show up…and do this to me…"

His hands remained in their station.

"And what do _you_ think you're doing to me, Miss Elliot?"

She could practically see the sparks that radiated and clashed from their innuendoes. It was like someone had dropped a Monet, oil-painting in the rain, allowing all the colors to march into one another. Her head was dizzy, her body feeling much too large and out of proportion. If everything wasn't hooked together, she would simply float away.

"Certainly quite less than you," she faintly defended.

His hand moved to her cheekbones, pressing against the hidden line, tracing the contours, the peaks and the valleys, the points and the corners. She shut her eyes for a moment, indulging in the sensation of his touch.

The sound of his voice was the noose to awake her consciousness.

"Anne…."

But before he could speak any further, Matthew's intolerable cries smashed the confrontation.

Leaping apart with severe astonishment, Wentworth muttered a barely audible excuse and then sprinted down the hall.

Anne blankly stared at the space he once occupied, firmly knowing that she was just as madly in love with Frederick Wentworth, as the very first day she met him.


	8. Barely Breathing

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for the reviews! Glad everyone is enjoying the story! 

**Carrie-** Kellynch is now being rented out to The Crofts. Yes, as stated in earlier chapters it was seized by the IRS, but somehow, in this universe, the Elliots were able to still gain some sort of custody over it, I suppose. Haha. In compensation for all the money they owe, they are able to rent out Kellynch to repay their debts. If that makes sense?

Yes, some of the prices are probably considerably off, since I'm not a native New Yorker. I just made up numbers. Haha. Sorry about that. As for the product placement stuff...thanks for the advice, though I think all the name dropping adds to the high-class snobbery/elitist attitue of the Elliots and their inner circle. I read the Gossip Girl series, which is all about the rich and the privileged and there's a big emphasis on designer name dropping, which I thought would apply nicely to this adaptation of Persuasion. But if it's really that hindersome to the story, I'll cut down on it.

Anyway, thanks for the review! Please keep reading!

* * *

_Please forgive me  
_

_If I act alittle strange  
_

_For I know not what I do.  
_

_Feels like lightning running through my veins  
_

_Everytime I look at you -David Gray_

_

* * *

_

_Anne- _

_Don't let this whole Wentworth situation bring you down. His actions stem from justified intentions. I'm not saying that you deserve this, because an individual with your temperament and personality certainly does not. However, Wentworth went through the same thing you still are experiencing. (Perhaps he still is?) I'm not sure. All in all, don't worry about it, all right? He once loved with such fierce intensity; it's quite easy to understand his fierce hostility. However, I have a sneaking suspicion that this hostility is not what it seems… _

_Anyway, when you're completely done baby-sitting, maybe you could try and escape The __Seventh Circle__ and drop by? You're always welcome here. _

_Best Wishes, _

_J. Smith_

_

* * *

_

A glorious morning aggressively burst through the New York skyline, the type of magnificent splendor that initially inspires daydreamers and small-town hopefuls to run into the motherly arms of the jaggedly comforting city. A few days had passed since the painfully awkward encounter with Wentworth.

Although Anne was sincerely putting considerable effort into the sudden evaporation of the memory, it had been drilled into her head. She mentally analyzed every detail, from the sound of his speech and the manner of his actions.

She tossed and turned at night, her eyes refusing to relent to much-needed slumber, as her stream of vivid consciousness continued to produce mental movies. It was like battling a bought of insomnia, without knowing the full reason to the reason or a solution. Matthew's dreadful "illness" seemed to be going away and Mary's blood pressure took a slow yet positive nosedive.

However, this was not to suggest that the sister had intentions of Anne's dismissal. No, it would be quite unlike Mary to dismiss Anne and waste the opportunity for hassle-free schmoozing. It was clear at the Musgrove House that Mary ran the show, not Charles. He was simply the spineless employee that raised the curtain.

Anne didn't bother to complain, fully aware that her objections would plummet faster than an atomic bomb. Thus, she settled for the audience of her closest friend, Jane Smith. Mrs. Smith lost her husband in a ski-accident during a holiday vacation.

Considerably kicked in the financial belt and quietly dealing with her grief, Mrs. Smith had fallen out of favor with the Park Avenue Elite, thus earning serve disapproval from Mr. Elliot, Elizabeth, and Mary.

In a world where money was not a rare luxury, your ticket to the glamour of the high-life was immediately revoked if you lost your qualified, social title. Nevertheless, Anne had remained by her friend's side, quick to defend her dignity and honor.

As Anne read the e-mail, she noticed her gut clench from a swift blow of guilt; she must remember to contact Jane and arrange a get together. They hadn't really spoken face to face in quite awhile.

Anne glanced out her window, admiring the view. Logging off her laptop, she yawned and stretched. With the fiery beauty of the incoming dawn, it would be a logical idea to take a jog around Central Park. Unlike many of the Manhattan Snobs, a cramped gym with high-tech, complicated machines could never beat the invigorating stimulation of the open air and the winding lanes of the park.

With a self-accomplished smile, Anne waltzed into the bathroom, expecting to brush her teeth and wash her face. Tugging her lavender robe tighter, she carelessly shoved on the door.

What she didn't expect was to be assaulted by a warm blast of steam. And what she never would have imagined, in a million years, was to be stupefied by the visualization of Frederick Wentworth, completely nude with the exception of a rather short, Ralph Lauren towel, to breezily step out of the shower like it was utterly natural.

Anne's entire face was ghastly white, her tongue failing to articulate her shock and secret appreciation. Anne had certainly remembered the Adonis-like brilliance of Wentworth's chiseled features, but that had been back in college. He'd still been shedding his teenage years like a graceful butterfly.

But now, it was obvious that Wentworth had evolved into the man he was destined to become. Anne felt sick with longing, aching to release her trammeled frustration into one kiss. But due to her cultured conditioning and mild-manner, she remained in her spot.

Remembering her pathetic expression of girlish delight, she composed her emotions, wrangled her amazement and then threw him a very deliberant, yet very icy smile, which was neither happy nor boiling with hidden fury. It was blasé and detached, the same way that Wentworth had been treating her.

Two could play _that_ game.

Wentworth's eyes studied her with guarded suspicion, as Anne elegantly flittered around the bathroom, snatching her toothbrush and toothpaste. Daintily squeezing a thick strip of mint paste onto the bristles, Anne met his eyes in the mirror. They stood side by side, afraid to accidentally touch one another, as though both were healthy and the other carried a contagious case of leprosy.

Wentworth gingerly reached across the counter for his bottle of TGI BedHead, but ended up softly brushing Anne's forearm. But she was an Ice Queen, her lips pressing into a thin line. This was an erroneous contradiction to the thrilling spark that galvanized from the tips of her fingers surging to the top of her head.

"I didn't know you were…staying here," Anne finally admitted, slightly dour.

The chill in the vibrato of her voice was enough to freeze the steam lurking on the surface of the full-length mirror.

Wentworth shrugged, ran his gel-slathered hands through his locks. Anne bit her lip in spite of herself, unable to trail her eyes away from his task.

"Not permanently. I've been staying at Kellynch. To visit my sister. But last night I was out with Charles, Mary and the Musgrove girls. We stayed out pretty late. I was exhausted. I was welcomed to stay the night. I accepted. I wasn't told that the second guest room connected to the first. My apologies."

It was like a conversation between a man that had accidentally stepped on a stranger's foot in the airport. It lacked familiarity or the warmth of personal endearment or even genuine remorse. Anne inwardly scowled at the reference to Louisa and Henrietta, successfully conjuring the unfolding layout of the night's dialogue.

No doubt, Mary had managed to brag about everything she'd ever owned, while both girls nearly shed sweat, blood, and tears for a split-second of Wentworth's undivided attention. And from the way Wentworth's monotone monologue was dressed up with a smirk, she was positive that he was still basking in his pompous glory.

"Ah, I see. That must have been quite the fling about town. I have the sneaking notion that Henrietta and Louisa adore your company. Tell me, Frederick, do you prefer listening to their audible swoons when you crack a smile, or their ditzy speeches inorder to win your affections?"

This verbal dart was initiated by the spit and rinse of her mouth, as she stiffly turned to face him. Wentworth paused for a moment, staring at her with newfound awe for her brashness and slight irritation.

"Henrietta and Louisa are perfectly nice, young ladies. I suspect your disapproval stems from your self-driven agenda. No one or nothing is ever good enough for her Royal Highness, am I correct?"

He cocked an eyebrow, challenging her rebuttal, a challenge that Anne was contently willing to accept.

She fixed him with a smile that was drenched in venomous fervor.

"In terms of friendship, I have come to learn that wealth can breed dishonesty. I choose to trust people due to their true character, not their outward facades. In terms of love, I believe it was Lauren Bacall that so pointedly stated that a woman isn't complete without a man. However, she elaborated to question the location of such a man, a _real_ man, to be precise. Tell me, Mr. Wentworth, where do _you_ think all the real men have drifted off to? Or are they an extinct species?"

She gazed up at his towering frame, like a zealous climber about to conquer Mt. Everest. For once, she was not afraid of his response. She crossed her arms over her chest, her expression almost mocking, stumbling between the borderline of smug and earnest.

The witty banter had electrified Wentworth and he quickly discarded his designated role of cool and collected, exchanging it for a costume of heated annoyance.

"I wouldn't necessarily label their supposed rarity as the sudden cause of complete death. They're out there all right. But it seems that women think that hunting season is year round and without limitations. Women are the cause of man's decline, because they fail to see the error of their blunders."

Their conversation was clearly latent revenge, dripping with all the couture of an intellectual vocabulary. The lusting ache began to pulsate, as Anne missed their cherished exchanges of wit and laughter. Had he been so burned that he was blind to her devotion? Contrary to his assumptions, it had never died. Until they reached a resolution, it would never die.

"And men only persuade their blindness, because they never express their distress! How can one expect a change, if the problem is never addressed? Do you sincerely believe, Frederick, that all women are the cold, calculating temptresses that you have conjured?" Anne demanded, full of authority.

Wentworth smirked and Anne scowled. How she hated that smirk, that presumptuous little simper.

"Yes and no. Few have proved to be completely sincere. Many have shown to express feelings of sincerity yet convey actions of deceit. If snatched in the snare of a knowledge woman, a man has become the weaker gender."

Anne instinctively caught on to Wentworth's hint. It was a direct attack upon her character, upon their past relationship and its untimely ending. It was the match to her gas drenched anger.

"Don't let your opinions become prejudices. Pride is not a valuable poison to mingle with an impartial perspective," she seethed.

This time, the smirk had dropped off his face like a greasy piece of bacon on a roasting skillet. He glared at her, stepping closer with budding rage.

"My opinions aren't the result of prejudices, but the consequence of less than pleasant experiences. Pride is only a common factor when it has become bruised or damaged. But I am aware that _your_ pride has never been abused, Miss Elliot, when this very pride initiated the downfall of my own."

Suddenly, Anne realized that maybe her aloof approach hadn't been the best idea. She didn't want Wentworth to become consumed by fury; she just wanted him to throw away his icy mask. She was about to lay her hand on his arm, but thought better of the gesture.

At last, Wentworth's chest heaved with a gigantic sigh. Anne was thrust back into the glaring facts of reality and her heart promptly began to gallop with vengeance. She was in a bathroom, with Frederick Wentworth, who was draped in a very thin layer of cloth and nothing more. Anne blinked, eyes wide and alert.

"It's too early in the morning to argue. Look, I'm going to get changed and then I'll be gone. If you'll excuse me," he briskly stated.

He turned around and lunged for the gleaming knob. Anne's wavering voice thwarted his departure.

"Gone? I hope that doesn't mean for good," she faintly confessed.

And suddenly, the spunk and sass had been murdered by the sword of child-like vulnerability. Anne was still that doe-eyed nineteen year old, falling head over heels forshaggy-haired Frederick Wentworth, secretly drawing pink hearts on her hands and singing along to vintage love songs.

Everything about the past was inviting and secure, like a feather bed after a crippling day of work. She wanted to curl up in his arms and feel the smooth texture of his cheeks underneath her fingers, the angled bones cutting across her skin like sheathed knives.

He would always be hers, even when they were miles and worlds apart. And somehow, deep down, she knew that Wentworth would always carry around a segment of Anne, wearing it like a locket.

He stared at her for a moment and then lazily shrugged.

"Things change, people change. But I can safely say that I'm not leaving. Not just yet. I've got some unfinished business."

She matched his mystery with quizzical wonder. Could this mean...?

"Care to elaborate?"

The smirk returned. She wanted to tug on her hair. And at the same time, his gesture was a cure.

"Ah. Well. If I told you, then I'd have to kill you."

The playful jest that saturated his tone was enough to thaw the remaining blocks of ice. Anne discreetly watched his sculptured back vanish from view, the door shutting with a gentle click.


	9. Masquerade

-Disclaimer: I own nothing.

* * *

A/N: Hi everyone! As per usual, thank you for the reviews of the last chapter. I enjoy reading your responses and I'm glad that I seem to be on the right track with all the characters. Accurate portrayal of everyone is at the top of my list. Here's the next chapter and I hope you like it!

* * *

Anne had endured enough. Having reached the end of her patience, she decided to politely detangle herself from nursing Matthew back to health. She carried a light weight of guilt, but if Matthew had truly been ill, perhaps Anne's guilt would have forced her to stay. It was not a matter of spite or animosity, though Anne secretly could not tolerate her young nephew's adoration for selfish attention.

She needed a momentary route of escape, a form of mental salvation from the mental exhaustion of cohabitating with Mary. A few days following the bathroom incident, Anne retrieved her mobile and called Mrs. Russell. Though it may appear like an imprudent choice, Anne knew that staying with the family friend would be a blessing, compared to the ruckus at the Musgrove flat.

Mrs. Russell spent most of her days out and about on the town, whether it was racking up her MasterCard bill or passing the lazy afternoons with large sessions of necessary schmoozing, with coveted individuals of the Manhattan Elite. She was aware of Mrs. Russell's scarcity around the enormous brownstone; fleeing or dodging her nosey interrogations would not be a difficult feat.

Yes, staying with her would be a vacation compared to the Musgrove Household. Naturally, Mrs. Russell squealed with delight upon hearing the request and adamantly approved such an idea. Mary was reluctant to let go of her stand-in watcher, though ultimately allowed her to leave.

By the middle of the following week, Anne was enjoying the relaxing luxury of an empty house _(with the exception of the occasional mew of the wayward cats)_. Mrs. Russell had dined with Anne that very morning, her mouth running a mile a minute as it repeated the various tidbits on Page Six.

Anne had willingly listened, though this fervor did not extend to a full participation. It was getting close to 6, as Anne finished a long email to Mrs. Smith. The clatter of the keys was off-synch to the mournful beat of Morrisey's deadpan voice. Without warning, her Nokia began to shudder with spastic vibrations. Electronically signing her signature, Anne picked up the phone, accepted the call and pressed it to her ear.

"Hello?"

"Ah, hello darling! Listen, Charles managed to get tickets to the premiere of _Madame Butterfly_. We've got an extra ticket and we both insist that you join us! I know how much you adore plays," Mary cooed.

Anne let out a sigh, instantly debating the issue. As a fan of knowledge and education, Anne loved any form of literature and the arts, whether it was a book, a song or a play. Her taste was not discriminatory, as her assorted collections showcased.

Anne had already seen _Madame Butterfly_, a moving play that told the story of young love laced with unavoidable tragedy. It had quickly become one of her favorite performances. Considering her current circumstances with a certain Hollywood Star, it was an appropriate choice of recreation.

The only downfall of this outing would be the addition of Mary, who only viewed a Broadway presentation as a good chance to boast the latest Valentino evening gown. In the end, Anne was not stubborn enough to refute her sister.

"Thank you for the invitation. I'd love to go. What time does it start?"

"The doors open at 8 and the show begins at 8:30. But I rented a town car for the evening; Charles insisted he drive the Royals Royce, but I do hate waiting in all that traffic. The car is going to pick us up at 7:25. Since you're closer to the theater, I'll just have the driver pick you up on the way. Does 7:40 sound good?"

Anne nodded, though Mary couldn't see her. What was the point of refusing? Slightly cursing her optimistic nature, Anne reasoned that maybe witnessing such a beloved performance would take her mind away from her troubles.

* * *

The car arrived at precisely 7:40 PM, without a second to spare. The horn bellowed with a dignified clamor and she snatched her clutch from her bed. Anne studied her figure in the mirror, attempting to pin-point any last-minute adjustments. She had decided to wear a lovely, Vera Wang creation; a one shoulder, lavender dress that danced and levitated like sea form.

Of course, makeup and jewelry had been adorned with a simplistic yet elegant fashion; complementary though not overly gaudy. Satisfied with her current state, Anne grabbed her Burberry trench coat as an afterthought, glided down the stairs, through the foyer and out the door.

The ride to the Winter Palace Theater was neither awkward nor comfortable, as Anne spent most of the time delivering unseen grimaces to Mary's nonstop chatter, while Charles jabbered on his Black Berry to various producers and movie business executives. The trio arrived just before the crowd began to clog the entrances and were easily escorted to their designated seating area.

Naturally, Mary demanded the most expensive tickets, not so she could maintain the best view, but uphold a place in New York's governing elite. The trio was happily ushered to the balcony level; front and center boxes that loomed in altitude, like a dictator's threshold, as he addressed his roaring crowd. The plush, velvet seats came with a pair of complimentary, gold-encrusted binoculars. The aisle between each row was wide and plentiful, unlike the rather cramped distances of the cheaper chairs.

Mary beamed with shrewd delight, stewing with narcissistic pride at the obvious result of the blessings of her wealth. As Anne located her seat, her legs nearly collapsed, as she spotted Frederick Wentworth. Unaware of her presence, he was at the other end of the box, near the glowing exit lights.

Chatting with Henrietta and Louisa, he flashed an easy, yet charming smile, like a latter day Gregory Peck. Both were staring at Wentworth with the utmost fascination, their nimble hands attached to his opposing sides. Though he was attempting to deliver equal attention, Anne could dissect from his subtle mannerisms that Wentworth was regarding Louisa with a special solidarity.

She bit her lip, unable to look away, though each passing second slashed through her intestines. It had to be at least thirty-minutes until the curtains rose; sufficient time for a quick "tour" of the theater. Anne formed a curt excuse and informed Mary, who dismissed her with a wave.

Mary was thoroughly engaged in her curtain mission of making secure acquaintances with the Governor and his toothy wife. Reaching for her ivory clutch, Anne glided through the row and pursued the contrary method of liberation, one that would thwart a meeting with Wentworth and his Empty-Headed Worshipers.

With unnecessary force, Anne slipped through the exit door and landed in the entrance hallway. Modeled to mirror a Victorian sitting room, the descending stairs sliced the landing in half. Each portion of the room was furnished with elegant, hard-backed chairs, mahogany coffee tables and marble reading lamps. With a small sigh, she wearily sunk into the chair, putting the small purse on her lap.

However, before Anne could indulge in her isolation, she was greeted by the twang of a familiar intonation. Advancing in her vicinity was Mrs. Hayter, the sister-in-law of Mary Elliot Musgrove.

Anne found Mrs. Hayter perfectly pleasant, despite her tendency to often be embarrassingly frank. On the other hand, Mary couldn't stand her newest relation. This basis for loathing did not stem from any personality defects, but from her financial flaws.

Though they had a considerable stronghold in the upper class, the Hayters failed to bring in a comparable income to the Musgroves. Mrs. Hayter had not worked a day in her life and preferred to spend her mornings at yoga class and watching the hours of the afternoon fly, from the comfort a posh spa bed.

Due to the doctor's warnings and an unfortunate diagnosis of hypertension, stress and exhaustion, Mr. Hayter was forced to resign from his supreme management of the New York Yankees. Though he still possessed a worthy share in the team and the general corporation, Mary frowned upon the difference in income and classified his retirement as full unemployment.

Husband and wife strolled towards Anne, emulating power and prestige. Both were approaching their late thirties, but could have fooled the most detail orientated. Mr. Hayter, his mocha hair slicked back, encompassed that enviable 'George Clooney' factor, his stern features more timeless than outdated.

Mrs. Hayter hurried to keep in time with her husband's lethargic but lengthy strides, flitting about like a frenzied poodle. Her unnaturally plump lips were pressed into a coral smile, her slim body politely hugging a couture gown.

It was a wonder what a couple of hours under the knife could produce.

"Oh, hello Anne! Quite the surprise running into you, dear. I haven't seen you since your father's Christmas gala. He _is_ doing all right, I do hope?"

Anne stood up, smoothing out the wrinkles in her dress. She nodded, smoothly transitioning into her public persona.

"It would be treacherous to say that he's adjusted without heartache; such an event is never dealt with the utmost passivity. However, my father and Elizabeth are enjoying themselves in the Hamptons. I spent a few weeks at our new residence; lately I have been in the company of Diana Russell," Anne sweetly informed.

Both Hayters had heard of the name, as Mrs. Russell was an admired elder of the unnamed, selective council.

"Oh, Diana! She's such a sweetheart. Send her my regards, will you? I do have been meaning to have tea with her. Nathaniel, darling, remind me to call Diana when we get home," Mrs. Hayter chirped.

Mr. Hayter nodded, fixing Anne with an amiable smile.

"I hate to intrude, but if your father is residing in the Hamptons, who have you accompanied tonight? By all means, if you're without escorts, you're free to sit with Patricia and myself," he generously offered.

Anne calmed the growing blush, her speech titled with slight, yet grateful laughter.

"Oh, thank you so much for the offer. However, I've come with Mary and Charles. I found it a bit stuffy inside, so I decided to venture into the lobby and catch my breath before the initial opening of the curtain."

Mrs. Hayter's illuminated smile decreased in wattage. It was a known fact that Mary secretly despised her in-laws, a strong vestige that Mrs. Hayter gladly reciprocated.

"Ah, I see. Well, Nathaniel and I should better get inside; I don't want any trouble locating our seats. Hopefully, we'll converse after the show. If not, please, do give us a call. It's been too long since we've had the chance to sit down and have a nice conversation."

Anne was relieved that Mrs. Hayter was noticeably ill by the mention of her enemy; it would not have been a burden to chit-chat with the Hayters for a moment, but all she really desired was to embrace the layers of her intertwined thoughts.

Mr. Hayter nodded, sneaking a peek at his enormous Rolex.

"Yes, Patricia is quite right. I do hope you don't spend too long out here; the show is about to start in fifteen minutes."

Anne nodded, awaiting their departure, so she could sit down once more.

"I will certainly have to take you up on that proposal; it has been quite awhile. I think I'll waste a few more minutes out here, before I enter the theater again."

The pair nodded and then ventured through the magnificent doors, immediately swallowed by the dim lighting and husky shadows. Anne slunk back into her original position, suddenly feeling weary and downtrodden.

Mixing and mingling with New York's finest was like stepping into a suffocating costume; she had outgrown the masks and artificial flavors of her esteemed world.

The values and ideals of their tight culture manifested themselves in just about everything, from the clothes they wore and their manner of speech. Everything felt so counterfeit; a false foundation that was crumbling within. Anne didn't know if she had always been susceptible to these emotions, but her frequent run-ins with Wentworth had elevated them to the surface.

On the other hand, for the same way she admired Wentworth's morals and character strength, she found it a bit hypocritical. Here was an individual that had not been blinded by the glitz and glamour of the good life, but seen its cracks and scratches. But the same blunders that he scorned were the ones he surrounded himself with.

In this high-stakes game of reputation and dollar signs, he was a pawn as much as he was a player. It raised an alarming question; had Frederick Wentworth actually escaped the beasts of social burden, or had he simply become the newest slave driver?

She shook her head and then stood up, knowing that it was time to discard her intellectual need for pondering tragedy. She was about to walk towards the door, when someone caught her eye. It was intensely clear that the stranger had been openly staring.

Across the room, he stood frozen in his spot, like an animal about to get blasted by the barrel of a hunter's automatic gun. However, he failed to convey weakness or sheepish candor; his gaze was more like a lion prepared to tackle the human threat.

He was tall, that could be observed even from afar. His tailored, Armani suit was like what a fine piece of custom jewelry does for a beautiful woman. His cinnamon hair was slathered back; his hazel eyes thick like fresh honey. He certainly could not have been older than Anne; he was probably around the same age.

Anne noted that he was not as striking as Wentworth, though he maintained a certain allure that mimicked the handsome gentlemen of Old Hollywood. Bitten by curiosity, Anne remained in her spot, her heart picking up speed as the foreigner stealthily and slowly approached her. Anne allowed her mouth to curl into an inviting smile and the man returned it.

Alas, the opportunity was dashed, when the door swung open. Anne ignored the gust of wind and tried not to frown, when the stranger took a quick glance at the latest intruder, then turned around and clomped down the stairs.

_That was weird. I wonder who he was?_

"Anne, your sister sent me out here to fetch you. The show's about to start in five minutes," Wentworth gruffly informed.

Anne turned and thwarted the scowl that was directed at Wentworth. Her apprehension altered into a soft glare.

"Thank you for the bulletin, Frederick. However, I was just about to reenter," she curtly responded.

Wentworth shrugged and held open the door. Anne unconsciously stiffened as she passed under his arm.

"Thank you."

They were silent for a minute, until Anne reached her row.

"Who were you staring at, by the way?" Wentworth tensely probed, attempting to appear nonchalant and failing with soaring colors.

Anne smirked, looking upward to meet his poker face.

"Who said I was staring at anyone?"

Wentworth groaned and ran a hand through his hair.

"You know what I'm talking about. That guy. He looked like he was going to say something to you."

A docile smile crossed her lips, threatening to burst into a laugh of ironic satisfaction. It was quite ironic to think; minutes earlier, she had fled the claustrophobic atmosphere of the balcony to avoid Wentworth's more than friendly socialization. Now, the tables had turned and Wentworth was mutely begging for a complete story.

_Thank Heavens for Karma! _

"Frankly, Frederick, your hints are leading to a dead end. And _if_ I were to converse with a member of the opposite sex, I really don't see how the affair would be any of your concern."

The muscle in Wentworth's jaw twitched, as he grinded his molars into each other. The house lights flickered and a great murmur erupted, as patrons scrambled to their seats. With a sweeping air of unforeseen wit and confidence, Anne patted his shoulder like an obedient dog.

"Show's about to start. Better go find Louisa and Henrietta. I'm sure they won't be able to find the correct seats without your excellent guidance."

Without waiting for his reaction, Anne brushed past his towering frame, sashayed down the row and gracefully plopped into her seat.

As the orchestra ceased their tuning and began the glorious overture, Anne momentarily abdicated all impulse to analyze her discourse with her old flame, hastily reflecting about the ruined opportunity with the silent suitor.


	10. Beautiful Stranger

Disclaimer: I ownnothing.

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A/N: Thank you for all the reviews! I'm glad everyone is liking the direction of this story!

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Anne felt a familiar pang in the crevices of her heart, as she leisurely strolled along the worn pathway of Central Park. Though the sun had made its grand entrance around dawn, the atmospheric temperature was quite brisk.

Wrapped in the folds of her pea coat, Anne studied her surroundings and indulged in the simple pursuit of physical activity. The white earphones of her IPOD was weeping the sounds of _Hallelujah_ by Jeff Buckley; a fitting soundtrack to her solitary stroll.

The shouts of children laughing, housewives gossiping and teenagers cackling ricocheted and bounced off the music of her IPOD, her tiny steps nearly matching the musical rhythm. It had been in this very park that Anne had refused Wentworth's proposal. Disaster had commenced at this park and the words that Anne had timidly spoken, or rather the words she had failed to utter, had proven to be the catalyst of her emotional downfall.

Forcing back the lump that clogged her throat, Anne plunged ahead. She inhaled with impressive force, allowing the chilly air to stab her voice box and her nostrils. Although the premiere of _Madame Butterfly_ had been a considerable victory, Anne's inability to completely forget Wentworth had reached a startling height. It was not a matter of weakness or pitiful remorse; she was not holed up in her room, mutely wailing into the darkness of another lonely night.

Rather, Anne couldn't bear to disregard the great unknown, the unknown of all those wasted possibilities. Her mind engaged in one-sided guessing games, as both her conscious and unconscious generated spurts of _What If_ questions that never had a pleasing answer.

For so long, Wentworth had been a ghost, alive in memory, deceased and decayed in physicality. However, considering present circumstances, the corpse had been brought back to life, given a beating heart and a winning smile. The past was not a set of moaning spirits that haunted Ebenezer Scrooge; the only chains this ghost clanked were self-imposed.

Dragging this ongoing thought like the train of a gown, Anne halted when something snagged her attention. Wordlessly, she studied the magnificence before her. It was a painting of Ophelia, peacefully floating in the chilly waters that had robbed the young woman of her very vitality. The painter was passionately tangled in the webs of his creation, his hand hovering over the tawny canvas, his fingers possessively curled around his dripping brush.

The work itself radiated undiscovered brilliance, each color bursting with impressive zest and sparkle. The innocent maiden lingered above the gray water, her pale face humming with angelic virtue. Her white dress sagged with the added weight of the water, her right hand housing a bouquet of sloppily-chosen forget-me-nots. An assortment of unidentifiable flowers slithered around her head, almost like a halo. The painting captured the slaughtering of innocence with poignant accuracy.

With a wry smile, Anne thought that suicide had never looked this beautiful. She took one step forward, intending to continue her trail. However, something would not let her leave. Acknowledging her hesitation and trepidation, Anne walked off the marked path and onto the grassy knoll. She pressed _pause_ on her IPOD, stood to the right of the nameless artist and then cleared her throat.

With a slight jerk of alarm, the artist turned towards the direction of the intruder. When he gazed at Anne's amiable face, he relaxed. Anne initiated her speech with a pleasant smile, taking a glance at the unfinished painting.

"Sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to commend you for that beautiful painting. It's of Ophelia, correct?"

The painter appeared surprised, as if his masterpiece was utter garbage, but nevertheless, she had stopped to compliment him. While he struggled to battle his initial shock and form a response, Anne couldn't help but observe that this stranger unknowingly embodied the "starving artist" stereotype. His windblown, mahogany locks called for a needed trim and the shadow that christened his jaw line was about twenty minutes past 5 o clock.

The purple sacks stationed under his nearly black orbs marred the advantage of otherwise clear, slightly tan skin. Though dressed in a pair of jeans and a zip-up sweatshirt, the ensemble seemed to sag off his narrow frame with an unspeakable anguish, as if it were too much of an effort for his body to exhibit the cloth.

Similar to his painting, there was a simple beauty in this man's disheveled, battered appearance, a quality that translated without explanation or lengthy discourse. He was generally attractive, but was not in the same league of Wentworth or even the gentleman from last week's opera.

"Why…uh, thank you. And yes, it's of Ophelia. I'm impressed that you guessed correctly, right on the spot."

The voice that emptied from his small mouth flapped with genuine humility, soft and docile, as though it hurt too much to speak at full-volume. His manner deemed strikingly childlike, though assuming from his facial features, he was rapidly approaching his early thirties.

"Hamlet is one of my favorite Shakespeare plays. For me, the juxtaposition of the flowers and the grip of the water were a signal. Tell me….I hate to be obnoxiously pushy, but are you a professional?"

The artist blinked for a moment, studied his picture with blank recognition and then returned his stare to Anne's waiting face.

"By professional, if you mean I'm actually making a living off my paintings, then no. It's more of a hobby than a real job…something to channel and dispose of my…unwanted anxieties."

He smiled, exposing a few miniscule, though pearly teeth.

"Well, you have amazing talent. I just can't get over how…organic and gorgeous this is. The color composition, the style, everything. I know I can't be the only person that thinks so," Anne sincerely praised.

The man's cheeks tinted with a submissive blush, the splotches of crimson staining the rounded areas like a bottle of ketchup knocked over by bowling balls. He rubbed the back of his neck with meek discomfiture, shifting around in his folding chair, as though he were an infuriated butterfly pinned to a cork board.

"Thank you, you're too kind. I mean, like I said, I love to paint, but it's not my actual profession. I'm in the stock market, over at Wall Street. Amazing, eh, going from economics to art? It's like saying you crave chocolate, but quenching the feeling with a steak."

He chuckled, looking at her expression for approval. Anne laughed and diplomatically extended her hand.

"I'm Anne, by the way."

The man's amused grin softened into an enchanted curl of the lips, as he placed his paintbrush on the easel and stood up to accept her handshake.

"Benwick. Jay Benwick."

* * *

Anne focused on the slip of paper in hand, the computer screen flickering with a greenish tint. She had spent two hours in Central Park, one of which had been in the company of Jay Benwick. They had spoken mostly about art, though Anne had learned that Jay lived in the same district as Kellynch Hall.

As they continued to converse, she noticed that the air of his melancholy decreased but did not altogether extinguished. Jay never offered an explanation of this essence and Anne did not probe its rearing. Safe to say, this made her even more eager to discover his secrets.

Contradictory to his mild manner, Anne was surprised when Jay had offered his cell phone number. Anne wasn't the type to cling to the digits of strange men, but her intuition told her that Jay was perfectly harmless. It was three days later and Anne hadn't yet contacted the stock-broker turned painter.

Though she could easily accept his number, she was too paralyzed by hesitation to quickly pick up where they had left off. She didn't want to give off the illusion that she was desperate for a date.

Anne hoped that tonight would break their silence, as she was planning to attend a special event at the Museum of Modern Art. A new gallery was to be opened and the museum had decided to host a party eligible for the select elite.

This was certainly not the type of function that Mary or even Mrs. Russell would attend; they could care less about art and did not believe it would aid to the development or maintenance of their high-class reputations. Thus, they had no deep or strong motives to even make a hasty appearance.

On the other hand, Anne knew she could not even properly draw a stick figure, but truly appreciated all forms of art, whether it was sculpture, painting, architecture or even to an extent, music. The strengthening of her public persona was not a primary factor in this decision, though her enthusiasm and the lack of passion of her social counterparts would equate that she would be without an escort. However, Anne did not have any objections towards this fact.

As the clock chimed 7:50, Anne abandoned her laptop and scurried over to her closet. She had called ahead of time for a taxi; it would arrive at 8. Mrs. Russell had practically begged Anne to use her own obnoxiously large Jaguar, but Anne had downright refused. She hated the mere idea of flaunting wealth and showing up in such a car would only attract unwanted and uneasy attention. She failed to harbor any desires to be associated with the oblivious pretentiousness of her financial peers.

Anne's eyes darted around the closet floor, searching for a pair of heels to match her red, Calvin Klein dress. She settled on a cream colored pair by Missoni, grabbed her clutch and then gracefully flew out the bedroom door. As she floated down the stairs, the horn of the taxi cut through the auditory sea of New York nightlife. Mrs. Russell was peering through the front window, when Anne reached the door.

She turned to Anne, her hawkish gaze boiling with disapproval. Her mouth flapped with tremendous speed, as her thoughts instantly formed and immediately launched into shrill sentences. Concerning the rapid fire of her speech, it was a wonder that Mrs. Russell didn't trip over her own tongue.

"Oh, Anne dear, don't you look lovely. But I must confess, I'd still prefer if you let me call Lawrence. I'm sure he wouldn't mind driving you. I'm rather uneasy at the notion of you riding in a taxi; so dirty and dingy. No respectable individual drives a _taxi_; such shady characters they employ, a poor soul doesn't know whether the driver will take you to your destination or pull out a pistol!"

Anne ignored Mrs. Russell's silly and considerably prejudiced argument, punching in the code to the electronic lock and then swinging open the door. Anne gave a quick wave to the driver, placed a foot on the steps and then turned to a horrified looking Mrs. Russell. Anne smiled, one filled with latent irony.

If this had been back in the past, the old Anne would have been easily persuaded by Mrs. Russell's claims. However, she had shed this bothersome skin as the years had evolved. The pleadings of Mrs. Russell failed to have an impact on her, the advice simply churning into a hidden joke.

"And once again, I appreciate your offer, though I'll have to refuse it. I'd much rather use a taxi; there's no need to rouse Lawrence. The gala ends around 10. Knowing the traffic, I'll be lucky to get home by 10:45. If you need to contact me for whatever reason, my phone will be on all night."

Without another word, Anne sauntered down the steps and to her awaiting getaway car.


	11. Dizzy Up The Girl

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

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A/N: You guys are great! Thank you so much for the support and the reviews. I sincerely enjoy reading all of your opinions.

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_I want your warm, but it will only make_

_Me colder when it's over,_

_So I can't tonight, baby_

_No, not "baby" anymore _

_If I need you_

_I'll just use your simple name_

_Only kisses on the cheek from now on_

_And in a little while, we'll only have to wave_ -Fiona Apple

* * *

The museum vibrated with life and the buzz of artificially polite chatter, when Anne breezily pushed through the revolving doors. Everything seemed to seep in the nostalgic relics of the past, as the black and white decorations exuded crisp sophistication.

Mozart delicately fluttered through a hidden set of speakers, enhancing the romantic lighting scheme. Anne easily discovered the newly added wing; the christening was just beginning. A sharply dressed waiter flitted about the room like a hummingbird, flaunting a silver platter of imported, white wine.

Anne gracefully grabbed a glass and offered the twenty-something man a smile and returned her attention to the guest speaker. A brightly polished podium had been assembled farther into the room, elegantly displaying the logo of the museum.

The curator, an elderly gentleman decked out in a vintage suit, adamantly praised the successful securing of the new pieces. A few long winded minutes later, the curator lavishly snipped the red ribbon blocking the entrance, thus allowing the socialites and royalty of Manhattan to filter into the room.

As the patrons flocked to the initial displays like pigeons, a certain painting immediately caught her attention. The masterpiece comfortably rested in the far, left hand corner of the room, embracing the flickering shadows. The corner nearly swallowed the painting, the wood frame edging out into the open like a turtle determined to win a race.

Mimicking a classic diagnosis of bewitchment, Anne floated towards the object of her curiosity. Her eyes locked with the penetrating gaze of the subject, her hand suddenly wanting to caress the aged canvas. She had witnessed the painting quite a few times, but only in books. Though it was nestled behind a glass case, the side affects of actually viewing the real item was almost surreal.

Anne's heart charged with emotion, as she unabashedly allowed her own perspective and sentiments to identify with the intended stimulants of the portrait. She stopped and stood, staring with open rapture, without embarrassment, without self-loathing for her awe. The dialect of the individuals that surrounded her melted and pooled into a massive pile of undecipherable soup, as it churned around her ears like foaming butter.

Utterly transfixed, Anne soaked in every detail, every brushstroke and every line, searching for answer after answer, after she had already perceived the solution. Her soul seemed cleansed, as it reached a profound level of clarity, Vermeer's nameless beauty greeting her like a childhood friend.

Although Anne was not an art expert, she was quite knowledgeable about various painters and their most famous works. _Girl with a Pearl Earring_ had always held a special place in her heart, the mystic attraction of the aforementioned work was an element that Anne could never fully explain, whether it be to her own rationality or to an outside interest.

Something about the painting touched her, a stark visualization of longing clashing with regret, sloshing with a shaken mixture of restless despair yet faithful hope. It was such a simple image, when you only judged the presented facts. It was just an unknown girl, her head titled to the side, the glint of her pearl earring popping out of its fleshy abode like a firefly.

And yet, this painting was so much more than a few fancy phrases and two-dollar vocabulary words. In some odd way, Anne regarded the print as her own reflection, beaming with all the silent words and gestures that she burned to reveal. It was due to her intense concentration and depth of such thoughts, which caused Anne to jump when the voice cut through the air.

"Vermeer. A classic."

Anne whirled around, facing her intruder. The exposure of such an individual did absolutely nothing to calm her accelerating nerves, as she locked eyes with Wentworth. Much to her dismay, she nearly swooned at the mere sight of him, though her stoic expression dared not blush the crevices of her face. Naturally, he was just as handsome as the last time she'd crossed his path, appearing just as apathetic and simultaneously annoyed as ever.

Unlike many of the other unfortunate victims choking in stiff penguin suits, Wentworth had skipped the rigid formality for favor of black slacks, a black, button-down shirt and a skinny tie, its saturation a shade darker than his startling orbs.

His hands were free of a glass, snugly hiding in the large alcove of his pockets. A turbulent sea began to brew in the pit of Anne's stomach; the small, inflatable raft that carried her cool indifference was quickly being put to the test.

Anne briefly wondered if Wentworth ever experienced this out-of-body nausea every time they reunited. She wondered if a shiver had skittered down his spine or if he felt the awkward tension that hovered above their heads could only be resolved by a kiss. But she knew the rules of engagement; she wasn't ignorant to the do's and don'ts of emotional warfare.

Despite the acidic pain that chewed through her heart, she would never surrender. To surrender declared that she was weak; frailty was a stigma she refused to bear. Though the lessons of passing time had been rough, the acquired knowledge had strengthened the wisdom of her judgments and decisions.

She couldn't look away and he tentatively stepped closer.

"I shouldn't be surprised that I spotted you here, I suppose. If I recall, you always had a fondness for analyzing art."

His gaze had lazily wandered to the painting and he ignored her attempt at regaining their visual connection. Anne shifted the champagne flute to her other hand, peering down into the hollowed basin and then treated her senses to a small taste.

"I still do. You know, I've frequently seen this painting in books…slides…all the like. And yet, viewing it here, in person…it's a different experience," she softly confessed.

She turned away, just as he once more fixed his attention to her impassive face. Anne's very skin seemed to prickle at the mere realization that he was studying her without worry, without approval. She forced herself to focus on the painting and not the proximity of Wentworth's body. The rest of the inhabitants of the museum went about their business, not paying any mind to the incipient conversation of the ex-sweethearts.

"There's something so…honest about seeing the original work. It's something that doesn't come across in a book or a copy. So tell me, Anne, what in fact do you see?"

His tone was hospitable, but Anne suddenly felt an impending bullet of doom that exploded with harsh coarseness in the center of her thoracic cavity. It was like she'd been shoved into the spotlight, demanded to perform a staring role in a play, without ever having skimmed the script. She cleared her throat, in order to steal a moment to accurately gather her thoughts.

Anne slowly turned her head and met his gaze, deep brown meeting jade.

"I see… a young woman…who is flailing. She's…drowning. She's searching for meaning; she's reaching out for a sense of hope, faith…for blind conviction. Heartache is written on her sleeve, yet she refuses to admit or accept even the hint of defeat. Yes, she is standing on the edge of disaster, yet the cyclone looks absolutely beautiful. From such an altitude, from such an angle, chaos bleeds into order and the flaws add up to a messy perfection. She's in love….not by choice, but by necessity."

The words echoed out of her mouth, pushing past her tongue, shaky yet understandable. Once Anne truly comprehended the wording of her opinion, she turned away, in fear of criticism. But her prophecy was never fulfilled, as Wentworth slightly advanced in her direction.

"Interesting….interesting analysis. It does contain a certain amount of undeniable truth and yet….you know what I think?"

She fixed him with an amused smile.

"What?"

He silently studied the painting for a second, and then spoke his mind.

"I see a young woman who already has all the answers. Deep down, buried beneath the surface of her fears, she can clearly envision the solution. She thinks she sees the beauty in the breakdown, the guiding light in the madness…and yet, ignorance is not the culprit, but denial. She refuses to acknowledge the truth…and so, she looks not out of unrequited desires or affections, but out of artificial oblivion."

Anne plucked out the knife that had been shoved into the side of her throat, her fingers curling around the stem of her glass. A heavy silence filled the lack of conversation. Wentworth's eyes swept to the ground and then returned to the masterpiece, his brow furrowed, the twin folds of his lips crashing into each other like a pink avalanche.

"Well, what's wrong with seeing the beauty in disaster? Everything must have its opposite, everything must have some sort of balance," Anne tenaciously interjected.

Wentworth smirked, though the expression was not intended to be crass or bluntly rude.

"Nothing, nothing at all. The only problem is that sometimes, people end up craving the thrill of possible disaster, rather than craving the thrill of success. Notice how Vermeer didn't paint a head-on portrait. She's at an odd angle. Perhaps she's hiding something…perhaps, she's looking over her shoulder because the reality in front of her doesn't match up to the fantasies in her head."

Anne frowned and took another gulp from the glass.

"The angle of her face doesn't necessarily equate to secrecy. Look at her eyes…they're absolutely haunting. They're filled with something unspoken, things she wishes to freely say, but for some reason or another, she's been censored," she genially argued.

Wentworth's eyebrow raised with strengthened interest, as the comment struck him in a way that Anne failed to decipher. His tone adopted a cutting innuendo, dripping with double-meaning.

"Is it a matter of censorship or a faint heart? Not all shyness or privacy can be linked to external oppression. Maybe she was trapped by her own follies. The persuasion of family and friends can often override personal opinion."

Anne inhaled deeply, turning her entire body to Wentworth. Her heels clicked against the tile floor and he copied her action, his hands rising out of their cloth shields and into the open.

"Are we still talking about the painting or are you referring to another matter entirely?" she demanded, with clipped exasperation.

He shrugged.

"I don't know. You tell me."

Anne sighed, tired of his childish tendency to dance around the target.

"Frankly, I-"

Suddenly, Wentworth surprised her for the second time that evening, as his finger hovered centimeters from her lips.

"Sssh. You hear that?"

Anne noticeably relaxed when his finger departed from her general speaking area.

"Hear what?"

"That music…that song…surely, you've got to remember that song…" He trailed off, dropping his defensive brutality that had entered their earlier bantering.

Anne strained to hear the music; thei nitial crowd had swelled in considerable amount. Thankfully, many people were still too engaged in their own petty affairs. As Vermeer's painting was the very last in the gallery series and located in the discreet nook, no one had stumbled upon their strange discourse.

When she finally caught the familiar notes of the tune, she found fresh anxiety. She looked at Wentworth, who suddenly appeared closer than previously. However, she didn't bother to step back.

"Oh God, of course I remember this song. _Moon River_. Breakfast At Tiffany's. I watched the DVD so many times that you…well….you had to eventually buy me a new one."

Wentworth smiled, his first genuine smile of the night, tumescent with multiple layers and meanings, like his responses.

"You know…you kind of look like Audrey Hepburn, now that I think about it. You've both got the dark hair and the dark eyes and the ivory skin. Has anyone ever told you that before?" he questioned.

She shook her head, internally wishing that she had one ounce of the confidence or associated elegance of the said idol.

"No, never. Elizabeth is the supposed beauty of the family. She's so tall and blond and terribly self-assured, unlike me. It's a wonder we're sisters."

Wentworth chuckled.

"Well, as they say, looks can be deceiving. Though, no offense, I think with Elizabeth what you see is exactly what you get. You on the other hand...I'm still trying to figure out."

Anne offered the glimpse of a smile, instinctively feeling as though she should defend her sister's reputation, but remained mute on the matter, knowing that such a reputation didn't deserve to be ferociously defended.

Another bought of silence passed and Anne gently sang the song under her breath.

_"_ _Moon_ _River__, we're off to see the world…oh, there's such a lot of world to see. Oh, you dream maker…you heart…breaker…"_

Anne experienced an alluring voltage of nirvana, as his fingers momentarily brushed against her loose hand. His voice was barely audible and Anne commanded herself to block out the outside noise, so she wouldn't miss a single syllable.

"I used to think….we were like the people in the song, you know? Two drifters…going off to see the world. Back in college, I thought I was a real rebel, a bad ass…some kind of damn James Dean. And you…suddenly coming along…everything seemed so…perfect, it was like I dreamed it up with the blink of my eyes."

Anne bit her lip, wishing the wine was stronger. How was she supposed to deal with a spur of the moment declaration like that? They were both focusing on the painting now with alarming intensity, channeling all their apprehension into the task of figuratively burning a hole into the canvas.

To lock eyes at a crucial moment like this would be the catalyst to the downfall, just like pushing the first domino. Neither wanted to throw the first match that would set fire to the bridge, because neither knew how they would return to the other side. There was safety in fake ignorance.

Her softness matched his subdued voice.

"The drifters in the song…they were after the same thing. The same rainbow. Despite their differences…they wanted the same thing."

He let out an angelic sigh, a sound that stung and healed at the same time. His fingers brushed against her hand again and in a bold move of perseverance, Anne ever-so loosely laced her fingers with his own. It was barely a connection, could barely qualify as a solid hand-hold. And despite all of these blaring facts, the insignificant gesture mocked a lip-to-lip exchange.

Anne began to mentally panic, thrusting into shut-down mode. Red lights and alarms and sirens of all sorts began to obnoxiously screech, yet she didn't dare break the link. They continued to stare at the painting, painfully aware that their time was ticking, as the crowd inched closer to their location.

"People grow, people change. People will always have dreams, but those dreams aren't always the same throughout their lives," he wearily pointed out.

She shut her eyes, knowing the underlying basis of their debate. It would always be the same, no matter what pretense was exercised or what wrapping paper you chose; it was always the same bruise. He would never forget her error of character.

He would never forget that day in Central Park, the day she had cracked and rejected his proposal. And she would never forget the way he looked or the sound of her heart breaking. If they could never get past this hurtle, where would they ever go?

"Wentworth-"

"Please. At least call me Frederick."

She faltered, caught off guard. She smiled, stumbling forward.

"All right. Frederick. I-"

Suddenly, she felt the jerk of his fingers fly out of her weak embrace, as a male voice shattered the moment.

"Anne! Anne? Is that you? Do you remember me?"

Anne turned in time to lock eyes with Jay Benwick. He looked much the part of the Wall Street Mogul, strutting towards the pair like he had just earned enough money to buy a chain of hotels.

"Ah, hello Jay. I didn't expect to see you here," Anne admitted.

Wentworth seized silence, studying Anne and Benwick with steely resolve. The heat of his perplexed jealousy flowed from his body in waves.

"And who are you, if I may ask?" Wentworth asked, temporarily ignoring Anne.

Benwick sized up Wentworth, slightly wary.

"Jay. Jay Benwick. I'm…an acquaintance of Anne. Say…aren't you an actor? You won an Oscar for that Sam Mendes film, _Chocolate and Cigarettes_," Benwick proclaimed, with sure authority.

Wentworth nodded, a polite smile crossing his features. His eyes strayed to Anne for a moment and then over the top of her head.

"Guilty as charged. I'm Wentworth. Frederick Wentworth. And if you'll excuse me, I think I've spotted someone I need to converse with. It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Benwick."

Benwick shook Wentworth's extended hand, not at all offended by Wentworth's shaky excuse for departure.

"Likewise."

Anne thought Wentworth was going to flee without so much as a final glance in her direction, but she was wrong. Before he slipped away, he turned directly in front of her, his body blocking Benwick.

"I would normally take my leave without assuming we'd soon meet again. However, considering the ongoing circumstances, I'm sure we'll run into one another very soon. After all, two drifters are bound to cross paths at some point in their journey, right?"

With a weak smile, she replied, "Of course."

And without another word, he brushed past her. She continued to watch him weed through the crowd, not caring if Benwick silently speculated about the true nature of her relationship with Wentworth.

However, she was quick to avert her eyes, as soon as she witnessed Frederick Wentworth scoop Louisa Musgrove into his awaiting arms.


	12. Sugar, We're Going Down

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

* * *

As Anne warmly closed her latest correspondence with Mrs. Smith, she shook her head, knowing that she could never accept another date with Jay Benwick. It had been a few weeks since the disastrous date, but Anne had yet to hear from the amateur painter. 

After Benwick had so coincidently ruined the simmering moment between herself and Frederick, he had blatantly clung to her forced offer of camaraderie, juggling his time between seizing her admiration and stealing glances at her blank expression. The evening had unfortunately extended into coffee and Anne's intentions to return home by eleven were shot to the ground.

Initially, Anne had assumed that the conversation would be interesting and stimulating, as Benwick's passion for the arts carried a tempting allure. However, hope had been tranquilized, as Benwick's hearty laughter dribbled into weary anguish, as he mourned over the loss of his wife. Anne's compassionate nature did not ignore Benwick's flag of black depression, but her patience was tested as Benwick willingly threw himself into a pit of self-abuse, ears blocked out to Anne's soothing assurances.

Her suggestions engorged with maternal ease were only met with haughty denial and horror, as Benwick refused to believe her empathy. His passive demeanor rocketed to red annoyance, when Anne politely declined his efforts to kiss her. He quickly issued an explanation for this mistake, blaming it on his inner stress and turmoil.

On top of his antics, he finally declared that a repetition of the night should occur in the near future. Anne smiled with the utmost hospitality, false sincerity oozing from her words like puss from an open wound. Truly, she felt horrible for regarding a widower with such malice, but she could not encourage any further romantic attachments.

However, if it was friendly advice and pure companionship that he continued to seek, Anne would not shy away from his company. Many people believed that men and women could not be friends without latent ideas of romantic pursuits, but Anne begged to differ.

True love was like a case of striking lightening; anyone was a possible target, but this kiss of electricity was such a rare occurrence, that when it did ensue, it was stupendously captivating to behold. Anne knew that no matter how well she came to know Benwick's temperament, she could never fall in love with him.

Granted, he had primarily attracted her attention due to the combination of his looks and talent, but it never was and never would be a driving force to ignite her fancies. There was only one man that Anne loved, wanted, and needed; one man that would forever haunt her inner psyche like the guilt of a psychologically weak criminal, guarding his foul play with locked lips and a hardened heart.

It was an encumbered task to repeatedly make his acquaintance, to sit and to smile like a paper doll, pretending that the coldness she reserved in her voice reached to the very tips of her veins. It had been years since they'd really talked; talked like they once had, when the simple exchange of words presented the opposing speaker's soul, letting the words roll over and over in your mouth, as you devoured their essence like slow melting, vanilla ice cream.

Now the words formed like shields, grammatical fortresses that attempted to prevent the influx of fresh memories. Maybe she was chasing his ghost, rather than the actual man; time had whizzed by like a chariot on fire. Frederick Wentworth was more so a stranger than a confidante; her attachment was thriving on pure mementos, lusting after a phantom of a man, while the real man was drifting away from her.

After Anne finished her e-mail, she returned to her long-forgotten duty of packing. Two nights ago, Mrs. Russell nearly endured a self-induced seizure, as she dashed into the bedroom, panting and choking on her own gushing pride. Anne gave the elder woman a moment to catch her breath and then questioned the significance of an entrance with such gusto.

Apparently, The Park Avenue Elite and various other minions of the socialite army were in an uproar, as Henrietta Musgrove announced her intentions to speedily marry Charles Hayter. Naturally, this was seen as a blasphemous sore upon the very Musgrove credibility, as Mary could not stand the mere sight of either Mr. or Mrs. Hayter. The fact that he was a _(distant)_ cousin was not so much as distasteful as his income. This was yet another fine situation that illustrated the complicated and contradictory rules of the rich and infamously famous.

Anne had contained the instinctive urge to sigh with relief; slightly comforted that one of the Musgrove sisters had been eliminated in the competition for Frederick. The entire Musgrove clan seemed to share Mary's disenchantment, as a hasty but thoroughly lavish wedding commenced construction.

The paradoxically under-wraps affair would take place in The Hamptons. Anne didn't really mind, as this would present a chance to catch up with Mrs. Smith. The only downside was that she would be residing in the same hotel with Frederick and the remaining Musgrove piranha, Louisa.

Anne studied the bulging contents of her Marc Jacobs suitcases. She'd been smart to pack a few outfits that were suitable for the beach, along with the obligatory formal ones. She'd never been much of a makeup fanatic, so a small portion of her luggage had been devoted to cosmetics. Running a check-list in her head, Anne nodded with satisfaction and then clipped the two bags shut.

Tomorrow morning, a town car would arrive at 8:30 AM on the dot. The car would take Mrs. Russell and Anne to their destination, in time to arrive for the ceremony and dinner rehearsals. The following day would be reserved from another set of rehearsals. A free day came before the designated day of the actual ceremony. Carefully clearing her possessions off the sheet, Anne flopped onto the mattress with exhaustion, gratefully allowing her spine to sink into the material. If the upcoming dawn signified a mandatory encounter with Frederick Wentworth, it was vital to take a serious nap.

* * *

The car ride to The Hamptons had been exceedingly boring; Mrs. Russell's conversational skills were limited to the topics of gossip and expensive clothing. Anne, of course, pretended to be enraptured by the dialogue, but internally counted down to their arrival. What seemed like an eternity later, the driver gracefully came to a halt, parking directly in front of the most luxurious hotel that money could provide.

The creamy building could have been a frenzied dream of Donald Trump; gold-trimmed windows, iron gates, and a never-ending height that could not be estimated from the ground. Practically brushing the tips of the beach, one glance out the window presented miles and miles of white, hot sand and aqua water that glistened. Relatively few people were lodged in the hotel, presumably due to sky-high cost. Mind you, _La Bella Vida_ was not another Holiday Inn.

Three bell-hops rushed to the car, scrambling for the bags before the driver had even popped the trunk. Mrs. Russell beamed with self-righteous dignity; her three felines snuggled in the satin depths of their carrier bag. Anne sighed and grabbed one of her suitcases, matching the grin of a very relieved bell-hop. The all-too familiar faces of her father and Elizabeth had yet to emerge, but Anne knew that the pair wouldn't dare miss such social chaos.

Anne presumed that they had not been invited to be an element of the actual ceremony, but indeed had been invited to attend. Surprisingly, Anne had been selected as bridesmaid. This was not due to latent favoritism on the part of Henrietta; the final member of the party was vacationing in St. Bart's and location required a regretful decline.

Anne trailed behind Mrs. Russell, almost languidly, as she strutted into the entrance hall. The area mimicked a grand ballroom in a Disney film, complete with golden chandeliers, elaborate, Renaissance paintings that spawned the entire ceiling, and antique furniture. Farthest away from the door boasted the information desk. A twenty something concierge stumbled over her own feet, anxious to win the approval of the incoming elitists.

Her ginger locks had been pulled into an achingly tight ponytail, her cheekbones dusted with an overwhelming helping of strawberry blush. Her dark blue uniform lacked any creases or wrinkles and her heels demurely clacked against the peach colored tiles. Anne was reminded of an adolescent monkey thats veins pulsated with caffeine.

"Oh! Well! Yes! You certainly must be Mrs. Russell! And yes, you! I recognize your face from _The Times_; caught your face in the fashion section! I love your style, Miss Elliot! So pleased to meet you! My name's Muffy Lampard and I run the concierge desk!"

Muffy grabbed Mrs. Russell's hand and wildly pumped it, beaming like a loon the entire while. She attempted to seize Anne's hand as well, but she withered away, though still bearing a polite smile. Muffy blinked, confused at Anne's gesture, but then regained clarity. Her jack-o-lantern grin returned with alarming voltage, her mouth firing like a machine gun. Mrs. Russell stared at Muffy with barely cordial tolerance, though she rather enjoyed the attention.

"Well, Miss Musgrove has made all the arrangements, so your rooms are all set. Top floor, nice ocean view, nothing but the best, of course! I have your daily itinerary, hot off the printer. Miss Musgrove thought it would be a good idea; I agree!" she squealed.

The pause in her speech was met with the deliverance of their schedules. Anne's eyes scanned the list; they had about an hour until rehearsals began.

"Anyway, these boys will take care of your bags and show you to your rooms. I do hope you enjoy your stay here and if you need anything, absolutely _anything_ at all, don't hesitate to call me at the front desk. Just ask for Muffy!"

Mrs. Russell curtly smiled, like a python about to whip open its fangs and bite.

"Right. Thank you, Muffin. Anne and I appreciate your…_enthusiasm_. Now, boys, if you'll lead me to my room? We have a wedding rehearsal to attend very soon!"

Muffy's illuminated glee shattered and Anne shrugged, as if to apologize. The three bell-hops adjusted the bags _(more so the ownership of Mrs. Russell than Anne)_ and then ushered their footsteps to the elevator. A minute or two later, Anne and Mrs. Russell had been personally escorted

to the 55th floor and to their respected rooms. Apparently, Henrietta had simply rented out the entire floor, so all attendees and participants of the ceremony would be situated in a single location.

The door to room _12_ shut with a respectful click, as the three employees departed. It was around 12:30 now; rehearsals started at 1:30 sharp. Anne figured the best thing to occupy her interest was a little relaxation. Rummaging around in her second suitcase, she pulled out her dog-eared copy of _Wuthering_ _Heights_ Within seconds of devouring the words, Anne was swept away in a kaleidoscope of crazed passion and undying love, among the haunting moors of England.

* * *

Anne remained seated at the table nestled in the corner. The lights were relatively dim and hazy, casting a magnolia infected hue on every object in the room. They had surfaced to the part of the rehearsal that she now wanted to desperately escape; the first dance. The party had united in one of the four ball rooms; a colorful and rich confection torn from the buzzing pages of an Andrew Lloyd Webber play. Anne spotted Louisa, entangled in the middle of the small crowd, hip to hip with a suitor that was surprisingly _not_ Frederick.

Henrietta was an absolute perfectionist; she wanted a preview of each partner's dancing abilities, in case she could demand effort of improvement. Each bridesmaid had been easily partnered with a groomsman, that is, with the embarrassing exception of Anne. A long-time, family friend, a posh Mr. Ellis, was deemed absent and thus, Anne was without a dance partner.

With a sigh, Anne traced the rim of the dusty champagne glass in front of her, hoping it would all be over soon. A shadow clashed with the end of her Burberry heels; Henrietta had broken away from the festivities and was glowering with simmering irritation. Her Chloé mini-dress was blindingly white, an all too obvious reference to her bridal position.

"Anne, you're totally ruining my plans! The point of a rehearsal is to _rehearse_. I can't have you sitting by yourself like a high school wallflower."

Anne laxly shrugged, her finger continuing its path around the edge.

"I'm sorry, Henrietta. However, all circumstances considered, I can't very well dance without a partner."

Henrietta scowled, crossing her arms over her chest, her foot tapping to a self-generated beat. The chatter and laughter intermingled with the soft chorus of _The Way You Look Tonight_; the scene before the women seemed to pay homage to a 1950s cotillion; everyone wrapped in the warm splendor of their relentless wealth, burrowing in the security of their social markers. For once, Anne secretly wished she were a part of the living painting, rather than an analytical outsider.

"You know, Anne, I-"

But Henrietta's little tantrum was murdered by the rumbling interruption of an unlikely savior. Like a sprite from the mist, Frederick loomed in front of the two, though his attention was clearly directed towards Anne.

"I'm terribly sorry to intrude, but I overheard that you were without a partner. It seems that my designated partner has found another individual to her liking, so I assumed it'd only make sense if you and I…?"

He trailed off, his eyes cutting a hole in Anne's heart.

Anne felt as though she were choking on her own tongue.

Henrietta beamed, clasping her hands together, oblivious to Anne's discomfiture, jovial that the problem had been solved.

"Splendid idea, Frederick. C'mon Anne, don't be shy! I want this wedding to be _perfect_; go wow Freddy with those years of ballet," the younger woman cooed, a wicked tint coloring her tone.

Anne blushed, wilting her head downward. She realized that Henrietta would not leave, unless her desires were satisfied. However, this did not signify that the equation would be ratified with the acceptance of Frederick's recommendation.

Frederick appeared to have stayed in his exact place; she could still feel the heat of his gaze without matching it. His hand was suddenly on her shoulder, weightless as a goose feather, fingers hesitant but willing to curl around the curve of her blade. Anne clenched down on her teeth; she had been backed into a corner, stranded in the dark lair of the Minotaur, without a set of wings.

"Anne. Just one dance," he brokenly whispered.

This was enough to drag her out of her trance; Frederick sounded more vulnerable than any of their previous exchanges of banter. Without a word, Anne stood up, allowing Frederick's hand to silkily slide from her shoulder and into her own fingers. Henrietta squealed with replenished delight and zipped to the other side of the room.

Anne could hardly breathe, her esophagus screaming for air, as though she were wearing a chest-crunching corset. She was unable to directly meet his eyes and thus studied his attire, from the pressed khakis, to the button-down shirt the color of pine needles, to the polished Oxfords that housed his large feet.

She attempted to take herself out of the moment, detach herself from her frazzled emotions, but it was an impossible dream. She couldn't believe that they were about to come in such close physical contact, especially concerning the history of their relationship and the past prejudices of her relatives and friends. They were truly heaving themselves into the bone-littered cage of the lion.

"Why?" she softly wondered, upon reaching the hard-wood floor.

They stood in front of each other, still, motionless, confused and buzzing with anticipation. He stepped forward and shakily wrapped his arms around her petite waist, gazing at her as though she were a Greek siren, singing a heartbreaking melody.

"Why not?" he patiently argued.

Anne painstakingly tossed out a lopsided smile, the kind that a person uses when it is equally fitting to cry. With hidden anxiety, she placed her arms around his broad shoulders, her cherished memories colliding with the recent reality, sensations of long forgotten days attacking the sensations of the unfolding present.

It was overwhelming to the point of exhaustion. They commenced to slow dance, when Frank Sinatra was replaced with a more contemporary tune. After floating through a choppy, yet fleeting sea of bewilderment, Anne recognized the song.

* * *

_Don't know why I'm still afraid_

_If you weren't real I would make you up_

_But right now_

_Everything you want is wrong,_

_And right now_

_All your dreams are waking up_

_

* * *

_

"Anne, that night at the Museum? I hope I didn't come off as…rude. I wasn't trying to be."

She looked up and smiled, knowing that she had accepted his apology ages before he formed the first sentence.

"It's all right. Nothing ever seems to be easy for us, does it?" she replied, unsure of how to smooth out the callous piths from her tone.

His lips tugged into a smile, though his eyes were burning with a disheartened frown of reflection and introspection.

"No, it doesn't. I wonder why that is?" he questioned, unable to grasp any answer, irrelevant or relevant.

Neither noticed that the entire room was watching them. And neither noticed that both had willingly scooted their bodies closer, narrowing the separation space.

"I haven't the faintest idea. But to think; this little dance wouldn't have occurred without Louisa's rhythmic infidelity. Speaking of which, I'm surprised she hasn't run over here and beat me to a pulp with her Prada wedges," she blithely teased.

Frederick wrinkled his nose, chuckling.

"And why are you so quick to charge Louisa with manslaughter?"

"Oh, honestly Frederick! For an exceptionally bright man, your sensibility is a poor competitor to your intellectual forte. Louisa absolutely **adores** you, worships the very ground you walk on! I bet she has a shrine in your honor, smothered away in the depths of her closet."

Her tinkling laughter flowed with his rumbling bass; their feet virtually floated, magically floated like Peter and Wendy, spinning above the forest of Never Never Land, while the fireflies sparkled like a diamond in a raven's coat of feathers.

_

* * *

_

_Remember when we first met_

_And everything was still a bet_

_In love's game_

_You would call; I'd call you back_

_And then I'd leave_

_A message_

_On your answering machine_

_

* * *

_

They were quiet for a moment and the steady yet mournful vibrato of the singer began to truly sink into Anne's consciousness. She gulped; her unusually playful mood deflating.

"Sadly, Louisa may be heartbroken to know that her affections are unrequited."

His verbal challenge was so low, that Anne could have sworn she imagined it. But judging from the serious expression engraved on every line of his handsome face, she was not imagining things.

"Yes…she'll be terribly heartbroken. Are you sure, Frederick, that you wish to be responsible for such damage?" she inquired.

He methodically blinked, as if he couldn't hear her response, but then nodded, his mouth plastered with a wry, ironic sort of smile.

"Damage? She's young, she'll recover. She's got numerous chances to love and to be loved. Lust is not built upon a sturdy foundation; once she finds some other passing fancy; my name will abandon her heart without a mark. However, I've been carrying around my battle scars for far too long…and if I'm not mistaken, they seem to match yours."

_

* * *

_

_But right now_

_Everything is turning blue,_

_And right now_

_The sun is trying to kill the moon,_

_And right now_

_I wish I could follow you_

_To the shores_

_Of freedom,_

_Where no one lives_

_

* * *

_

She shook her head, pressing her cheek into his neck, as if to shield herself from whatever bomb he prepared to launch.

"Please, Frederick, don't do this. Not here, not right now."

He shook his head, his mouth drifting to her ear, his voice husky and hollow, causing a series of chills to blossom on her spine and shoot into the tips of her toes.

"Yes. Right here. Right now. We've got to face up to it sometime or another. My God, I feel like I'm running in circles. Every time I see you, I tell myself that I'm supposed to maintain some sort of eternal grudge. And then I catch the faintest glimmer of a smile, or indulge in the sound of your laugh and my rules are abolished. Tell me, Anne Elliot, what do you want me to do?"

She sighed, her face moving back a bit, yearning to meet his troubled gaze. Her lips accidentally brushed against his cheek and her weary eyes transformed into a frightened deer, swallowing the planes and peaks his face, from his forehead to his prominent chin.

Yes, there was no doubt about it; they were on a sinking ship and they were both going down together. The thought should have brought a form of comfort, yet it added unfathomable weight to her demons.

"I-…"

She stopped, knowing that words were beyond this moment, that words and sentences and phrases were useless and complete garbage.

_

* * *

_

_We're made out of blood and rust_

_Looking for someone to trust_

_Without_

_A fight_

**_I think that you came too soon_**

**_

* * *

_ **

She could feel it in the air; their actions deemed a prelude to a kiss. His right hand fled from her waist and disappeared into her hair, temporarily lodging itself and unifying with her locks like a braided rope of different materials. She was a whirlwind tornado, an oncoming hurricane; a buoyant mess paralyzed by her own thriving longing. Her pulse was pounding in her ears and each time his hand shifted a single centimeter, it generated a distinct tremor.

Anne had gathered the strength to look him in the eye and it had initiated a silent contest, a visual variation of Darwin's survival of the fittest. She bit her lip out of bad habit and he smoothly shuffled closer; Anne was unaware that such viable space remained possible to conquer.

Sustaining his penetrating stare, Frederick allowed his lips to chastely and hastily skim her knuckles. Her stomach was a wreck, her heart was about to burst from her rib cage, her throat was burning, and her stalwart bravery had frozen with the onset of his voice.

And yet, she didn't want to be anywhere else.

_

* * *

_

_Ever since I've been with you_

_You hold me up_

_All the time I've falling down _

_

* * *

_

They continued to dance, their feet shuffling along to the lethargic pace of the verse. She inhaled and he ever-so-gently rested his forehead on her own, similar to a single sprinkle gliding upon the top layer of a frosted cake. He shut his eyes and she marveled at this sight, knowing that despite the absence of those velvety orbs, he was still breathtakingly gorgeous.

" Frederick," she began.

His eyelids slowly slid up, like a vertical curtain.

"Mmm?"

_

* * *

_

_But right now_

_Everything is turning blue,_

_And right now_

_The sun is trying to kill the moon_

_

* * *

_

She smiled and he returned the sentiment, those chills fluently replaced by warmth. Could she muster the courage to do this? Looking into the pit of those soulful irises, the answer gleamed with strong certainty.

"I-"

_

* * *

_

_And right now_

_I wish I could follow you_

_To the shores_

_Of freedom_

_Where no one lives_

_

* * *

_

And like the violent impact of an angel being thrown from heaven, the song abruptly ceased. The positive energy of the moment was instantly poisoned with apprehension and the natural instinct of self-preservation, reality squashing the surreal with its spike-lined hammer.

The unspoken remained and eagerly hovered, but like a baby that has been prematurely cut from its mother's umbilical cord, it quickly sagged with premature death.

As Anne removed herself from Frederick's grasp, she cursed her shaky and unreliable valor, attaining the knowledge that she had just been about to confess, that after all these years, she still loved him.

_

* * *

_A/N: Yes, yes, I know I'm evil. Haha. But it's not over yet! The song used in this chapter is called "Honey and The Moon," by Joseph Arthur and is seen on the OC Mix Soundtrack Vol. 1. If you haven't heard it, I highly suggest you D/L it because it's such a good song! 

And I don't know anything about The Hamptons, so the hotel and everything is simply made up. Haha.


	13. Ghost Of A Good Thing

A/N: No, I'm not dead! Sorry for the lack of updates. What can I say? Been working and trying to save up for college, etc, etc. Hope everyone is having a great summer!

* * *

Anne sighed, as she walked along the beach. Rehearsals had passed without considerable enjoyment or excitement; lingering around in the humid hall of the grand church had proved to beat her patience into slow submission, like water torture. Relations between herself and Wentworth had been awkward and strained, completely dismissing the undeniable, renewed bond that had previously congealed. She didn't know what to do; bottling up the knowledge that she still harbored such intense feelings about the estranged, ex-fiancé generated waves in her stable perspective.

In a rational, black and white manner, the whole affair seemed absolutely absurd. She was approaching her mid-twenties, early thirties and the both of them were equally approaching this entangled situation like high school puppies, trapped and blinded by the furious colors of their clichéd romance.

Anne was tired of playing games and putting on an act; her entire life consisted of keeping up her façade and keeping that glued smile to her face, in order to maintain her elevated place in society. But love was something too delicate, too raw, and too emotional to handle with such aloof care; surely, if abused so hideously, the animalistic streak of suppressed passion would roar to life, clawing down the barriers of standard etiquette. High society was fickle; there was no room for rebels and revolution seekers.

Anne had spent most of her day with Mrs. Smith, catching up on old times and discussing her woes attached to Wentworth. Mrs. Smith fortunately had a good head on her shoulders, something that had been strengthened with the sudden wisdom and illumination due to the passing of her husband. Although the conversation had been momentarily comforting, as Anne dawdled along the shoreline, the old disquiet was sneaking up again, stealthily creeping like mold, residing home base in the back of her head.

She kicked a portion of driftwood that blocked her lazy path, watching the waves of small delight as they crashed and cracked against one another, enemies in their own beautiful yet chaotic creation. Anne didn't realize that someone had been trailing her, until his sturdy arm lightly clamped on her shoulder.

Her caution was shaped into anxious surprise, when faced with a familiar yet still unknown acquaintance.

"Oh, hello!"

Anne was staring straight into the face of the man from the opera. With the practiced gait of an amazingly self-assured charmer, he ambled over, the fox-like grin on his face never wobbling. Although his attire deemed quite casual in comparison to the night at the opera, his raggedy jeans and J. Crew Polo only added to his classy appeal.

Anne was slammed with the natural instinct to obey her guiding shyness and make a run for it. However, she remained frozen, uneasy with her slow-blossoming smile, nearly liquid and melted, like a hand-crafted, Salvador Dali clock.

"This is rather odd…I know I've met you before, haven't I? Actually, I don't think that we've been formally introduced, but I have seen you before, haven't I?"

She found that she could only stutter.

He laughed.

"What are the chances, right? Look, I must sound like some sort of nutcase, running up to you without so much as a name. My name, as I know you've been wondering, is Elliot. Elliot Welles. Your father's nephew."

At the sound of his name, Anne brightened. Elliot was the estranged, adopted son of Mr. Elliot's sister. Although he bore no actual blood-relations to the Elliot lineage, he was treated without smug inferiority; the nature of his birth was not viewed as a plausible offense for ill-will. Anne had briefly met Elliot in the past, though these momentary encounters did not provide her with strong connection or familiarity.

Anne felt slightly embarrassed that she had initially analyzed her adopted cousin with such electric attraction, but shoved this perturbing sensation aside. She could suddenly conjure a youthful memento of the boyish Elliot, roaring with fiendish delight as he dumped a bucket of grimy sand on her head. The same sparkle seemed to nestle in the curve of his flawless cheek, the upturned, aristocratic bend of his nose. She wondered if that ruthless air of mischief had managed to remain.

"Oh, Elliot! It's been ages since I've seen you! How are you, how are you doing?"

They fell into synchronized step, as Elliot conscientiously swallowed into account that Anne possessed shorter limbs than himself.

"I'm all right. I've just graduated Oxford Law School; I'm taking a short break before I dive into the job market. But I've managed to obtain some possible candidates at a few notable firms. Hopefully, in a few months, I'll be able to come into practice."

Anne gazed up at her accomplished relative with genuine awe and respect. Recalling the painstaking diligence and responsibility that Wentworth had applied to his own legal studies in college, she was aware of the intellect and enlightened wisdom it required to pursue such a field. Although Anne also acknowledged the family reputation as a laborious advantage, Anne could sense that Elliot was not a sham of two-dollar words and haughty confidence.

"That's wonderful! I'm sure Aunt Larissa is proud. I do hope this doesn't sound rude, but what are you doing up here?"

Elliot flashed a charming smile, haphazardly throwing his hands up in the air, as if he, himself, failed to uphold a clue.

"Past debts, I suppose. I'm friends with old Charlie Hayter. Somehow, this meant that I could swindle an invitation to Henrietta's wedding."

Anne's lip vibrated with a freshly released giggle, amused by his sentiments. She was faintly reminded of Wentworth's easygoing nature and his natural charisma, especially in the initial stages of their collegial relationship. Elliot deemed the type of man that carried lines around the face and mouth not as consequence of constant frowning, but due to laughter.

"I'm afraid I'm in the same boat. Past debts and all that jazz. One of Henrietta's friends was on vacation; I was chosen as the stand-in."

She offered her explanation with a throw of the hand and flash of a defeated smile.

Elliot nodded slowly, as if her conjecture were difficult to process.

"So, Miss Anne Elliot, I'd say we're two unfortunate peas in a designer pod. Funny, I thought doing charity work was supposed to be galvanizing for the soul and all that. But I just feel bored out of my mind," he teased with a debonair zest that only few gentleman can achieve without smug irritation.

Anne gasped in shock and then commenced to burst into laughter. She was aware that the comment marked a caliber of barking disrespect; she could not control her laughter at the truth of the matter. It was refreshing to interact with someone he could openly mock the frivolity of their tight-knit and closed-minded society; someone could see past the glitter and glamour and objectively judge the entire landscape.

"Why, Mr. Welles, are you being fresh with me?"

Anne nearly dropped dead at the detectable amount of flirtatious candor that resonated within her meek voice.

Elliot's propped eyebrow almost disappeared beneath the shaggy array of his windblown hair, a perfect companion to his devil-may-care grin.

"Only if you'd like me to, Miss Elliot," he intimately offered.

Anne blushed like a Southern Belle, playfully swatting at his arm and purposely missing.

"My, my, cousin. Has Mrs. Smith and her bobble-head drones zapped the spunk out of you? What happened to that little girl who, in response to my charming antics, smacked me across the face with a Cabbage Patch Doll?"

Anne tossed him a sarcastic smirk.

"She was suffocated by perfume and etiquette lessons...Say, don't you wish that you could travel back in time and warn yourself; you know, about the future?"

She pasued, allowing the gravity of her question to saturate in the pores of his comprehension.

"And besides, for your information, it wasn't a Cabbage Patch Doll. I distinctly remember it being Strawberry Shortcake."

Elliot's capricious manner noticeably deflated, as a pensive air surrounded his expressionistic face.

"It may sound trite, but wisdom comes with age. So to answer your question, I can't say I'm perfectly happy with the state of my character, but I'm grateful for the experiences that have shaped it."

They walked in silence for a moment, admiring the crystal water and secretly each other. Trotting farther down the hazy strip of beach, they stumbled across the wafting sound of jolly voices. Through the bleary, white fog of the fading afternoon and emerging sunset, Anne automatically spotted two figures. Her breath snagged against her throat like a hook against nylon. Frederick Wentworth, humbly watching a very giddy Louisa, sported a pair of port-wine swim trunks and nothing else.

His abdominal region was surprisingly well-toned; his jaunting hip-bones creating a distinguishable V like an inverted arrow. The pair idled by a set of foam-beaten rocks; Louisa paraded about in an air-tight, Missoni bikini, scampering up the miniature cliff, nearly slipping on her kitten heels. Anne swiftly gazed down at her own outfit; skinny jeans, white, flowing halter top and her favorite pair of flip-flops.

Compared to Louisa, she had gone to the beach in a beaded evening gown. She wondered, if over the past few years, Frederick had transformed so ostensibly, that he would prefer Louisa's facsimile of extravagance, rather than her own, natural reserve. Quite frankly, maybe she really didn't want to know the answer. Anne continued to walk, knowing that she would eventually collide or cross paths with Frederick and his temporary source of entertainment. Elliot followed pursuit, his gaze wandering to the new beach patrons.

His eyes languidly traveled back to Anne's haunted expression and he furrowed his brow.

"Say, isn't that Louisa? And that guy with her looks awfully familiar…Charles didn't say Louisa managed to get herself a husband as well. Ha, wouldn't be surprised if they all pulled the wool over our eyes and announced this thing was a double wedding!"

The mere notion of Wentworth getting hitched to the likes of Louisa formed an imaginary tumor on the back of Anne's brain. The extended idea that there could be actual truth in this sea of fictitious speculation caused the thumping tumor to burst with a wet explosion. It was obvious that the sighting had ignited her malignant fatality of jealousy; the recent dance with Wentworth and now his frolic on the beach with this Beach Blanket Barbie was like pouring acid on a developing strip of photo film.

"Double wedding? Heavens no. But that _is_ Louisa. The man she's with isn't her husband, though I'm sure she wouldn't take offense for your mistake," she offhandedly commented.

"Oh, then who is he?"

Anne was surprised that Elliot was ignorant to her connection to Frederick. Considering the elements of their messy breakup, Anne believed that the entire Elliot lineage knew the nature of their ill-fated courtship. On the other hand, she realized that this should not be too startling, as Mr. Elliot rarely spoke to his sister or her adopted son.

"Wentworth, Frederick Wentworth. He's…an old family friend. I used to be quite…close with him in college. Louisa is absolutely smitten with him, if you haven't noticed already," she mused with latent disdain.

Elliot nodded.

"Ah, I guess the microscopic bikini should have sounded the alarm. Should we be the polite socialites and pop over to say hello? Or do you want to play the blind card and pretend we didn't see them?" he jovially suggested.

Anne laughed at his sarcastically biting, yet strangely loveable sense of humor.

"No, no, I'm all for remembering my manners. Besides, something tells me that Frederick could use an unexpected Samaritan. Even the best have failed to survive long intervals of Louisa's homage to Malibu Barbie."

Elliot turned to Anne in pleasant shock, bewildered yet genuinely entertained by her impulsive indulgence in leering jest. Anne was generally known for her sweet, mild temper and this snaky comment rang out of tune. However, Anne did not apologize for this slip of the tongue and momentarily offered Elliot a wan, though clearly evident gesture that could be labeled as a certified smirk.

The pair ambled toward Wentworth and Louisa. Much to Anne's discomfort, Frederick immediately took notice of the intrusion, though the sound of their feet sinking into the sand could hardly read obnoxiously grand. Louisa, on the opposing end, was too busy trying to impress Frederick's already diminished favor, to even register the addition to the party. Frederick studied Elliot and appeared to possess faint recognition of the stranger, as his mouth twisted into a funny sort of simper.

"Ah, Anne! Fancy running into you. Not to be nosey, but who's your friend?" Frederick facetiously remarked.

Anne rolled her eyes, ignoring Louisa's squeals of aggravation, as Frederick had turned his back to the clumsy girl.

"This is actually my cousin, Elliot Welles. Elliot, this is Frederick Wentworth," she curtly introduced.

Elliot promptly stuck out a hand and after an awkward beat, Frederick gingerly shook it.

"Nice to meet you, Frederick."

Wentworth stiffly nodded and then averted his eyes back to Anne. The nostalgic sentimentality that had spawned during the rehearsal dance had boiled into angry, defensive uncertainty. Jealousy colored the ex-lovers cheeks like tubes of chalky oil, expanding with each possessive intake of oxygen.

"Well, well, you and Louisa make quite the photogenic pair. Have you spent all day at the beach?" Anne wondered, with quiet fury.

She could sense that Elliot was forming his own judgments about this silent dispute, but she plunged forward, feeding off her own nervous and agitated power.

Frederick folded his arms over his chest, taking a very authoritative stance.

"For the most part, yes. After you scampered off to your room the other day, I figured you'd be too busy to enjoy a nice, relaxing day out and about. When I transferred the invitation to Louisa, why, she was more than willing to come along."

Anne faltered for a split second, well aware that his accusation could not be met with a plea of pure innocence. Ever since their rehearsal dance, relations had been uneasy and fumbling. The rule book had been doused with gasoline and carelessly tossed out the nearest window, free falling in a ball of faded glory and blinding flames.

Anne favored the rational and predictable side of life; when you had the psychic ability to accurately predict events before they would occur, it made the chance of regret, remorse or disappoint nonexistent.

"Oh, I doubt that Louisa would ever reject such an invitation. And I doubt _you _would ever miss the opportunity to meddle around the beach, when a decent-looking girl is involved."

Anne knew the comeback was weak and childish, but she had been caught-off guard. Though her wit had successfully soared in previous exchanges of banter, she was beginning to feel unprepared and exhausted; the previous incidents slowly but potently draining her snapping intellect, until she would finally dwindle down to the bare and humiliating immaturity of her guarded emotions.

Frederick scowled, uncrossing his arms. But before he could interject, Louisa's high-pitched calls floated through the air, landing in their auditory arena like asteel balloon. The three sea-level dwellers looked up at the young woman, who instantly relished in the quick attention.

"Frederick, darling, look how high I've climbed! And you said it would be impossible with these heels on. Ha!" she smugly disproved.

Elliot snickered and Anne tried not to beam with shared mockery.

Frederick rolled his eyes, looking bored with the conversation before Louisa had even opened her heavily-glossed mouth.

"I never said it was impossible, Louisa. I just said that it was highly unlikely."

Louisa pouted, thrusting her hands on her pear-shaped hips.

"Oh, you're no fun. Well, at least I proved you wrong! Now come here and catch me; you'd be a fool to think I'm climbing down and ruining _these_ Chanels."

"Louisa, I'm sure the damage you've inflicted with your little hiking expedition won't be any worse than taking the trip back down. Now stop being silly and just come down. Prove me wrong a second time, if you must," he crisply retorted, all the while, shooting a piercing gaze at Anne.

But like a headstrong ram, Louisa ignored Frederick's catty objections and tittered towards the edge of the elevated rocks like a toddler on faulty stilts.

"Freddy, darling, just come stand over here and catch me. I know you can," she purred.

Frederick refused to move, turning his body to look at her in painstakingly slow motion.

"Nonsense. You're going to hurt yourself. Just climb down and-"

Anne would always remember the heart-wrenching expression that surfaced on Louisa Musgrove's doll face, as she floated through the air like Wendy Darling, suddenly realizing with broken naivety and horror that her beloved Peter Pan had forgotten to tell her how, precisely, to fly.


	14. There's A Light That Never Goes Out

The doctor emerged with a tight mask of professional neutrality, sewn and stitched with years of trained detachment. With his free hand, he gently eased the door shut and turned to face his audience of bewildered spectators and haggard patrons. The badge-embellished coat he modeled seemed to enhance his glowing aura of astute credibility, thus generating an underlying hum of stale, though beating comfort. Wentworth led the front of the pack, along with Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove, Henrietta and Charles.

Anne lingered in the far back, unsure of the immediate desire of her company or presence, knowing that the rising level of anxiety would not decrease until she made a polite yet simultaneously hasty retreat. Though she remained a few meters away, she could clearly envision the furrowed brow of Frederick and witness the heartbreaking quirk of Mrs. Musgrove, as her fingers toyed with the sturdy loops of her fresh-water pearls. It was the classic case of the typical, dysfunctional family reaching the plateau of their undeniable, yet cleverly hidden malady of illusionary organization. Elliot had parted ways after partaking in the frantic escort to the hospital.

Anne studied Wentworth and then focused on the doctor, preparing herself for the absolute worst.

"Well, I have some good news and some bad news."

Mrs. Musgrove wrung her hands together like a sopping dish towel, the weathered veins twitching on the maps of her hands like flooded rivers. Mr. Musgrove gently placed his hand on her shoulder, his blank expression threatening to crack from smothered anxiety.

Dr. Carver sighed.

"The good news is that Louisa hasn't suffered any serious brain damage. I'm ninety-eight percent positive that surgery or any sort of operation won't be necessary. However, we will be closely monitoring her progress, as this period of recovery is critical."

All the shoulders of the family seemed to relax, though the tinged air of hysteria remained like a black balloon.

"On the other hand, it appears that the concussion is more severe than a tiny knock on the head. It seems that her left parietal lobe has been horribly bruised, which will temporarily affect her language comprehension skills."

Mrs. Musgrove gasped with alarm, clutching her hand to her chest.

"But I thought you said there wasn't any serious brain damage! What does this mean? Are you saying that Louisa won't be able to speak?"

Dr. Carver shook his head.

"No, no, of course not, Mrs. Musgrove. This is temporary; the height of her fall and the material upon which she landed should be expected to negate a clean bill of health. However, for a period of time, Louisa will have trouble understanding speech or written words. She will be able to speak; she will not have lost her ability to verbally communicate. But, you might find it difficult to hold a conversation with Louisa, as she will struggle to understand the actual dialogue."

At this, Wentworth spoke, laced with concern, the deep rumbling of his baritone surprisingly tranquil.

"But how long will this last, if it's not permanent?"

Dr. Carver swiveled to face the questioner.

"That's the thing; we're not entirely sure. Anywhere from six months to five weeks. It all depends on how well she responds to treatment. Of course, the damage isn't too serious, so I highly doubt the time period will exceed six months."

Anne couldn't ignore the guilt that bombarded Wentworth's expression, the self-inflicted wrath that doused his cheekbones, the way his lips curled into quiet disdain. The confiding enclosure of his chest cavity proved inadequate for his heart. She yearned to tell him that the incident wasn't a product of his apathy or the consequence of his malice. Louisa had been her own worst enemy; her ambitions to please and impress Wentworth had ignited her literal downfall.

The chilling gloom that crippled the small crowd rattled the very bones of Anne with a narcissistic authority, the kind of icy whip and howling cry that could not be thwarted by the defense of wool sweaters and knitted scarves.

* * *

She discovered him in one of the hotel's biggest conference rooms. It was the first place she thought to search. Naturally, Wentworth would not be able to resist the sleek beckoning of the stone fireplace, overstocked bookshelves and promised solitude. The entire family had willingly hovered by Louisa's bed-side, analyzing her stoic face, studying her tightly-clamped eyelids, as though the mere gesture would awaken the Banged-Up Beauty. After the obligatory though fumbled excusals, each family member had retreated to the cavern of his or her domicile.

The fire crackled like the flickering smile of a Halloween Pumpkin. His head rested in his hands, which slumped across his lap, his shoulders frigid and tense. Anguish lingered beneath his eyes, sooty and dark, embracing the seductive shadows created by the clash of the lamp's artificial glow and the golden flames.

His elbows rudely dug into his knee caps, the rise and fall of his chest following the silent tyranny of an offbeat drummer. His entire body oozed with restless tension, the basic elements of a brewing storm that threatened to decimate the mind's foundation of a personal grasp of stability. It seemed as though a typhoon of unsuitable words trampled across Wentworth's consciousness, obnoxious and pretentiously proud, spewing saturated slogans and propaganda like a campaign of hate. In theory, there were plenty of solutions to this immediate dilemma. She could waltz up to him, her hips energized with a subtle sway, her lips ready to lightly fly across his temple, her hands prepared to become smothered by his large palms. In perfect theory, she would know all the right lullabies to whisper, the harmonic sonatas at her disposal, certain to be disposed.

In theory, she could call the shots; she could direct the scenes and edit each frame, stripping away the fumbled lines and promises that refused to bloom. However, theory never settled with reality and reality always favored messy endings and smiles that should never have been born. Biting her lip, she crossed the threshold. Wentworth didn't bother to look up, that chest continuing its rise and fall, rise and fall, inflation and collapse.

She perched on the other end of the couch, dismissing the cool slither of the crushed velvet against the foreign invasion of her skin. Her spine was erect, straight and narrow, almost to the point of discomfort, a bird about to take its last flight. She'd never wanted him so badly; here in this moment and simultaneously, she had never welcomed such a rush to bolt.

This was a living testimony to cancerous desire, the play-by-play of unrequited love thrown back into the ring, content with its black eye and bruised body. The fire snapped and the shadows chased each other's tails. She wondered if she should let him open the conversation. But if she gave him the benefit of the doubt, would they be forced to remain frozen in the absence of a discourse? Anne was beginning to internally scold her brash impulse, when Wentworth finally looked up. His arms returned to his sides, coldly clicking into place like James Bond loading his state of the art silencer.

"Anne, it's late. What are you doing down here? Go get some sleep," he roughly ordered.

The richness of his usual tone had been substituted with scratchy and weary resistance. He had begun to construct the mental and emotional walls before she had even set foot into the room. He was almost like a general, mapping out the best points to fire, circling the spaces of obvious vulnerability.

She shook her head, turning her knees inward, on the brink of quaking with trepidation. This was stupid. Idiotic. Utterly moronic. But she wasn't about to exit, when she'd possibly snagged his attention.

"I'm not tired. And besides, shouldn't I say the same thing to you?"

He sighed, leaning back into the cushions, allowing the illusions created by the shadows and the indestructible flames to attack his exhausted form, picking away at his visible outline like fire-ants latching onto their conquest. One hand sprawled across the back of the furniture, the other find bittersweet solace in his disheveled mop.

"You could. And you probably should. But that doesn't mean I have to listen," he sarcastically retorted.

Anne snorted, slightly disarmed by the unfamiliar rumble of his responses, that gravelly and smooth rhythm that made her insides turn into a lava-lamp.

"Honesty Frederick, have you checked the time? It's nearly two in the morning. What could be so possibly enchanting about the fireplace that you feel the need to forfeit sleep?"

Frederick's lips twisted into an uncertain smile, shook his head and threw his estranged arm across the other side of the couch. It was obvious that he was drained, that sort of fatigue that eradicated the option of rest and relaxation. It was the sort of curse that stuck to the soles of your shoes and left a grimy, turpentine aftertaste underneath the bumps of your taste buds. Everything about Frederick hummed with this deprivation; his Winter had arrived with the grace of a lamb and the pride of a lion, betraying the lush Summer Green for a feast of naked white.

"Look, Anne. Seriously. I'm just not in the mood to banter tonight. My head is swimming and I don't need you to throw yourself into the whirlpool," he authoritatively clarified.

"Is it because of what happened with Louisa? Are you still thinking about her accident?"

Frederick let out an irritated sigh, abruptly leaning forward, his torso unapologetically jabbing into the once empty space. Anne knew that whatever he currently needed to say would explode from its cage. Maybe he should have come with a cautionary sticker, a bulletin of advisory: Warning! Contents Under High Pressure.

"Maybe I am, all right? Is that such a bad thing? How can I ever forget? I keep wrestling with these images, these…flashbacks. I just see her, floating in the air…that look on her face. Damn it Anne! How the hell am I supposed to just lumber off to bed when all I can see is that look on her face?"

Anne was slightly relieved that Frederick had been so willing to open up. At the same time, she was a bit worried. What if she couldn't mend this wound? She was a doctor forced to sew up a mile long gash with a plastic needle and three inches of thread. It was disheartening, to be rendered into this position, exchanging hushed words because routine mandated an air of impersonal courtesy. They used to lie in bed, watching the rain from her bedroom window, foolishly believing that love didn't carry a price and the night could blanket latent hurts. But everything they had pushed aside and herded under the rug had been reborn, pumped with bigger, faster and smarter toxins.

"_No one_ is asking you to just forget. But taking all the blame isn't going to benefit the situation either. Everyone is worried, everyone is terrified. But you can only take on one day at a time; we can only deal with each passing moment. No one is expecting you to run out and fix this, Frederick. It's not your job to fix this."

Frederick let out a hasty peel of ugly laughter, adjusting his pose so he could gain a fuller view of his debate partner.

"But I have to, don't I? I was at the bottom of that rock; I was the one that was supposed to catch her. I let her fall. I let her tumble to the ground. Now she's hooked up to a mess of tubes and machine and you sit there, telling me to shake it off and hit the sack? I can't Anne, I can't. Not tonight. Not when things are like this," he brokenly assured.

Anne unconsciously moved closer, genuinely upset and dismayed by Frederick's immense and bottomless guilt. Why couldn't he see that his hands were clean, the bed of his fingernails void of incriminating specks of blood? It was Louisa who had been the one to jump from that boulder. It was Louisa who had ignored his requests to avoid such a danger and it was Louisa who had submitted to the persuasion of her impulse, disregarding all laws of gravity and the voices of reason.

Perhaps Frederick could have joined Louisa on the rock, in hopes of reinforcing his demands, but this was irrelevant. Louisa had voluntarily sacrificed solid ground for hollow atmosphere. It wasn't Frederick's duty to hold the naive Musgrove offspring by the hand, vanquishing the monsters governing a kingdom of closets and lands anchored behind dust bunnies.

"Frederick, please. Your nobility is worthless within these circumstances. _Louisa_ is the one who jumped. _Louisa_ is the one who ignored your reasoning. Louisa is the one who should be responsible for her decisions and her decisions alone. No one could have predicted that she would actually jump," Anne soothingly explained.

Frederick blocked out Anne's argument, her optimism butchered by his own translation, transcribed into maudlin pity and monotone sympathy.

"But-"

"Freddie, listen to me. You're not Superman. You're human. You can bleed, you can cry and you can make mistakes. But Louisa's accident is **not** your mistake, do you understand me?"

Frederick's defensive pessimism faltered and he momentarily gaped, surprised by her unyielding interruption and her spontaneous display of a sentimental nickname. True, Louisa maintained the unbecoming and childish knack for second-grade pet-names, drenched in the syrup of her piercing voice. But when Anne had utilized this term of endearment, the intent and the attached sentiments rooted from a deeper seed. He had never erased the memory, the specific and telling fashion of her tongue embracing the syllables, vocal honey wrapping and conjoining with unique pronunciation, intimate like old lovers.

Would Frederick Wentworth ever achieve the means of exterminating her face, her eyes, her lips? He let his gaze wander to her NYU sweatshirt, the material worn and gauzy after numerous washes. Poetry churned beneath the ripples of lavender; it was written on the stark geography of her skin, waiting to be devoured by impatient intellect. She would always be there, watching from the corner, the hunger that could never be stifled, the ache that throbbed like a phantom limb and stood in a case like a war medal.

So he spoke the only observation he judged appropriate for such advice.

"Freddie…Hmm...you haven't called me that in awhile."

Anne blushed, fidgeting with her hands, inspecting her cuticles.

"It just slipped out. I'm sorry."

He shook his head, frown replaced with an easy smile.

"It's fine. No need to be sorry. Christ, the last time I remember you calling me Freddie, you were yelling at me, paranoid we'd get cuffed for hopping the subway gate," he confessed this with a level of surreptitious confidentiality, realizing that he had narrowly escaped the public torture of the full truth.

This vocalized revelation had been the second snapshot to come to mind, not the first. With the utterance of this nickname, Frederick had fluently slipped into an odd day, strolling down the allotted paths of Central Park. The sun had exited stage left for the debut of dense clouds, only to flee for the grand finale of rain. Neither possessed an umbrella and Frederick had grabbed Anne's hand, laughing as they raced through the hysterical clumps of tourists and mothers glued to strollers, whipping and weaving, ducking and dodging, laughing too loud and bubbling with apologies that didn't form quick enough.

Frederick's legs started to negotiate for a decent break and he'd pulled her under a towering tree, one hand in her wet hair, the other melting with the present liquid on her slick cheek. And he'd wrapped his coat around her, his burning to feel her bones pressed against his own far outweighing the urge to dry off. And she'd giggled again and he rubbed his thumb down that crinkle in her nose and he was closing the gap, tenderly squeezing her because she was his, all his, and she was mumbling _Freddie_ and the rain had dove into the crevices of their melting mouths and _Freddie_ was the only coherent word that managed to stay in his jumbled head.

But that was all in the past.

Anne formed an expression that was heartbreaking, rather than heartwarming. He wondered if she also felt evaporated, depleted. Should he end the source of this burdening grief, poison the bud before it could blossom? He knew what he could do, but did he dare act upon this knowledge? He glanced at Anne for some confirmation

"Frederick. It's late. You should get to bed. You just need some time to sleep on it, that's all."

Frederick's nostalgia extinguished, his arms returning to his sides.

"Anne, just give up. We both know I'm not going to move."

They were silent. However, this sound lacked any hospitality or ease, claiming only suppressing suspense and apprehension. Frederick wondered if his tone had been misinterpreted. He watched with inquisitive rapture, as Anne elegantly arose, mouth failing to betray the emotions that churned within her head. He watched her arm swiftly leave her side, levitating in the air as though guided by a string. Her fingers uncurled and she unveiled her palm, unable to face rejection.

He stared at her open hand, indulging in the lines and the curves and the indents that time and memory had fully preserved. After grappling with the rational hesitation, Frederick accepted her inaudible invitation. He slowly leapt to his feet, gazing down at the young woman he had once unconditionally loved, the woman he did love, the woman he could never cease to love, the woman he always found himself fiercely missing, even though she was never too far out of reach.

* * *

an. I'm so sorry that I waited so long to update! I wish I could write more, but college doesn't really allow a lot of free time...But never fear, this story will be finished. Sometime. I just don't know exactly when. Haha. 


	15. Grey Room

As the weeks passed, Louisa's health began to improve with surprising and welcomed vigor. The entire family was amazed that Louisa was successfully challenging the original diagnosis of the doctor, the steady rise and fall of her milky white chest providing silent solace to the distressed. However, this was not to say that the ill daughter would soon spring from her bed, fully recovered without the slightest trace of injury.

No one dared mend the shambled pieces of their broken optimism, or the nurture thoughts of hope. An underlying air of pessimism permeated the entire hotel, slithering through the walls and thwarting the possibility of a smile before it could fully bloom. Anne usually spent her time loitering around the conference room, secretly hoping that Wentworth would make another nightly visit. However, these desire remained within the realm of fantasy, as Wentworth kept to himself.

Anne had been informed by various Musgrove family members that a certain Elliot had remained in town, interjecting casual questions about Anne's general state and disposition, as though every conversation should be littered with such curiosities. Anne didn't know whether to be flattered or downright annoyed. Elliot had not stayed for the doctor's diagnosis, fleeing frantically after the sliding doors of the emergency room had swallowed her cousin. She understood that perhaps this was a family affair, an intimate ordeal that Elliot felt his presence was unnecessary and unwelcome.

On the contrary, some part of her could not excuse his actions, taking offense to his speedy departure. Or maybe, that part of her had willingly formed such a grudge, inherently conditioned to compare every other man to Wentworth. This was obviously foolish, as Wentworth appeared to have not forgiven, or would ever forget, about their broken engagement. It was something he had branded into his heart, something ugly and grotesque that lingered in the corner, some kind of force that skewered his perception, transforming Anne into a monster. The enemy. Battle lines had been drawn the very moment they'd reunited, but Anne was exhausted, ready to wipe off the war paint and call a truce. At times, she was positive that Wentworth felt the same way. Most of the time, Anne felt the heat of his indifference, wondering if one of these days, the ache of her loneliness would finally rip her apart. But she could never admit this, as her familial conditions would never approve of such honest and raw confession. Even Elizabeth, despite her flashes of compassion, would never tolerate such an emotional revelation. Elizabeth was just like the sparkling diamonds she loved; beautiful and elite, hard and impermeable to the very core.

One afternoon, after spending the entire morning occupied with The Awakening, Anne decided to visit Louisa. Granted, she often disapproved of her cousin's affection for the superficial, but she knew that it would be the respectful and polite action to execute. The room was swollen with the expected assortment of cards, balloons, wilting flowers in clear vases, and stuffed animals. The air was thick with the smells of lavender and jasmine, in attempts of disguising the obvious elements of illness and fear.

Anne bit her bottom lip, creeping over to Louisa's bed. She appeared to be sleeping, eyes shut like iron curtains, her hair splayed upon her pillow like long fingers. Anne opened her mouth to speak, sighed, and decided to remain mute. Her eyes swept past the jungle of wires and monitors, choosing to study a card graced with Wentworth's handwriting. Anne resisted the urge to see if he had written a special inscription.

The clicks and beeps of the machines matched the rise and fall of Louisa's chest, her body buried under a blanket. She suddenly looked so frail and vulnerable; without the illumination of her smile, the paleness of her cheeks dominated her features. Anne felt the familiar onslaught of exhaustion and the chokehold of weariness seep under her skin and for once, willingly submitted to its death lock. The trademark wear and tear of this exchange seemed quite appropriate considering the current and past circumstances; the acceptance of this melancholy was oddly soothing. Anne slowly reached out and placed her palm on top of Louisa's covered hand, staring at the slumbering girl drowning in her hospital gown. She closed her eyes and was immediately assaulted by a storm of thoughts, memories and bits of dialogue that she'd been trying to repress. She was so lost in this wayward concentration that she failed to detect Mrs. Russell.

"Oh, Anne, I should have known I'd find you here!" The loud whisper momentarily disarmed Anne and she swept around, wide eyes locked on the older woman. Mrs. Russell failed to detect Anne's apprehension and grabbed a stray chair, sliding up next to the younger woman. With a sigh, she studied Louisa as though her body were constrained within an open casket, dramatically pulling out a handkerchief to wipe her dry eyes.

"Ah, such a shame. Such a young girl, having to deal with something as horrific as this. But that Wentworth, what a saint! What a gentleman! I can't believe that after all of this, he decided to stick around!"

Anne nodded, half-heartedly listening, although it was rather difficult to block out any information that pertained to Wentworth. She fiddled with her hands, glancing down at the pale, blue veins that pushed against the surface of her cream colored complexion, flowing and branching like mirrored rivers.

"I'm not surprised. Wentworth has always been a gentleman of the highest degree. I've never doubted his honesty or his chivalry," she quietly agreed.

Mrs. Russell firmly nodded, her gaze momentarily locked on Louisa. She offered the tiniest spark of a smug smile, as though she'd been the one to discover these traits and provide plausible evidence, while everyone else had embrace disbelief.

"Oh, without a doubt, Frederick Wentworth is just the sort of man that Louisa needs to marry! A respectable fortune, a pleasant disposition, amiable looks…why, I wouldn't be surprised if they were engaged by the end of the year. My, my, can you imagine the wedding? It'd be marvelous. I'm sure the Musgroves would get the best caterers and all of the right people would be invited!"

Anne fidgeted in her chair, eyes trained to her hands, wondering if her silence only fueled Mrs. Russell's predictions of a future she most certainly would not want to come to pass. How typical and hypocritical, that Mrs. Russell would now approve of Wentworth. If only Anne had turned the other cheek, been deaf to the proclamations of dissent…If only.

If only was starting to sound like a lament, rather than a lullaby.

"I suppose so, Mrs. Russell. Although, I'm not sure Frederick would move that quickly. I don't think I am the utmost authority of their relationship, but I daresay that not enough time has passed in order for the solidification of genuine feelings. Affection, perhaps, but nothing beyond that."

This analysis was delivered with caution and restraint, surprisingly zapped of all attachment and emotion, as Anne feared Mrs. Russell would pick up on the underlying and inescapable subtext.

"Oh Anne, I've always admired your keen sense of practicality. But remember, love is a fickle and funny enigma! Who can really know how such a gift works? No, I could tell from the moment Louisa set eyes upon Wentworth, that she was smitten. I suspect this accident has only opened his eyes and revealed the depth of his attachment. There will be a wedding, I am quite positive."

Anne deeply inhaled and slowly exhaled, allowing the unified march of the monitors fill the awkward gaps. Mrs. Russell could not stand the brief lull in conversation and pasted an exuberant smile on her face, which completely nullified her earlier disposition of false remorse.

"Oh, Anne darling, did I tell you that Elliot Welles is back in town? Ha, well technically, I suppose he never left town. But after his hasty escape from the hospital the day of Louisa's accident, I was very surprised that he would suddenly express such concern! In fact, he seems to be most worried about _your_ condition, Anne! Charles confessed to Henrietta, who in turn confided to me, that Elliot fears that you've burdened yourself with unnecessary guilt," Mrs. Russell chirped.

Anne rose from her chair, her patience completely diminished and annihilated. She slowly crept to the door, eyes wavering from the inert patient to the quizzical Mrs. Russell, unaware of the true nature of Anne's distress, though aware that the atmosphere can shifted with her words.

"I'm going to head up to my room for a minute. I need to get something," she fibbed.

Mrs. Russell nodded and waved her away, unaffected by this hasty excuse.

"Yes, yes. Just be ready in time for dinner. We're meeting in the Imperial Ballroom. Six o clock sharp."

Anne nodded and gracefully darted out of the room. Down the hall she went, weaving through the sparsely populated corridors, passing rows and rows of lavish paintings. She made her way back into the study, lulled by the abundance of books, isolated from the rest of her family, allowed to momentarily toss her armor and become reacquainted with the vulnerabilities of her character.


	16. Perfect Shade Of Dark Blue

A/N: Pulling an Ernest Hemingway and having the bulk of this chapter be devoted to dialogue.

* * *

Anne was walking along the beach, when she spotted him. The sun had already dipped into the awaiting horizon, its orange edges clinging onto the skyline, desperately hanging like an unsteady climber dangling from a ledge. The water was relatively calm, the air unusually cool. Anne wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing away the small goose bumps that had risen onto her skin. 

She'd misjudged the weather; the blazing sun did not affect the distinct chill that lingered. Instinct told her to turn around and head in the other direction. What more could they possibly say to each other, without hurting one another? Conversation had transformed into competition; words proved a badge, dialogue simply a survival of the fittest. Anne was tired, to say the least. She knew that she'd handled things completely wrong, but also knew that Wentworth was not void of blame. However, out of conditioned amiability, she continued to in the same direction. She couldn't decipher the expression on his face. It was a blank canvas with the exception of hints of insomnia swiped across his cheekbones.

"Hello, Frederick," she politely greeted.

She tightened her grip and he abruptly stopped in front of her.

"Anne. What a coincidence. I was just thinking about you," he confessed, his tone completely stripped of incriminating emotion.

Anne slightly titled her head to the side, pausing to glance at the ocean. Miles and miles of velvet blue, waves rippling and slamming into one another. It all seemed endless and overwhelming. When she was younger, she loved the beach. She adored the smell of sun block and the sharp whistle of the lifeguard. She couldn't wait for summer, as it would mean the end of dead leaves and frozen ground. Sometimes, she would stay underneath the water as long as possible, until her lungs burned and her heart thrashed against her chest. Her flip-flops were full of sand, the bottom of her feet aggravated by the gritty texture. Wentworth hastily looked down, noticed that his hands were stuffed into his pockets, and removed them. He flattened his palms to his sides, maintaining a steady gaze. It wasn't intended to be intimidating, but Anne still felt small all the same.

She remembered a weekend in the city, watching the rain pound down onto the concrete, the infrequent bark of horns drowned by the merciless shower. She remembered observing the people scurry, amused from the comfort of Wentworth's dorm room. He made hot chocolate and poured them into fat mugs, making sure to add extra milk for Anne. They'd sat and watched _Casablanca_, even though they'd practically memorized the entire script. He made sure to hold her hand. She made sure to wear his favorite perfume and flattering lipstick. They both sat in silence, sipping their drinks, as Humphrey Bogart tried to explain intangible terms such as honor and dignity and valor, while Ingrid Bergman looked up at him with big, doe-eyes. And when Wentworth had whispered, "Here's lookin at you kid," into her right ear and wrapped an arm around her waist, she'd felt small then. But safe. And whole.

"You were?"

He gave her a wry smile.

"I was just going to ask you about Louisa. Mrs. Russell told me that you'd sat with her, the other day."

She was ashamed to feel disappointed.

"Oh. Yes. Um, well. As far as I can tell, she's improving. Slowly, but surely. Louisa was asleep when I went to visit her. If she woke up while in the company of Mrs. Russell, I can't say. I left shortly after checking on Louisa," she evenly explained.

He nodded, looked down at his hands, as he turned them over and then over once more.

"That's good to hear. I've been by a few times, myself. But I know that more than anything, she needs rest."

"Dr. Carver is quite surprised with her progress. She's recovering better than he expected. I'm relieved, to be honest. After watching Louisa take that nasty spill, I was positive that she'd be paralyzed or something equally horrible. She's so young, too. And to have something of that magnitude- I don't know how I would handle it."

Wentworth cracked a smile, laced with affection rather than sarcasm or judgment.

"I worry about Louisa, but if you were in such an unfortunate situation, I don't think I'd be as worried."

Anne flinched, seeking solace in the coastline, squinting her eyes to thwart the tears.

"Oh? You don't say?"

He shook his head, momentarily threw up his palms to surrender.

"By all means, don't take this the wrong way. I wasn't trying to offend you. Let me repeat the statement within the proper context. What I mean to say, Anne Elliot, is that you're a strong-willed, self-assured woman. Naturally, I would worry about your health and your general wellbeing if something to the same degree should happen to you. But I know you'd pull through."

Anne relaxed, her shoulders slumping forward, her arms tentatively abandoning their air-tight embrace.

"You really mean that?"

"Of course. I feel that you've continued to show enormous grace and ease under dire circumstances. For the most part, I've always thought of you as a very together person. I can rely on that. And I think that I like that this aspect of your personality is so constant."

"Well, I never considered myself a great actress, but after hearing your praise, I think I may reconsider show business! I'm flattered that you believe I'm such an assured person, really, I am. But please don't give me credit where credit is not due. Everyone has a breaking point, Wentworth. I'm not an exception to this rule."

He studied her for a moment, uncertain of what to think. Her heart commenced its normal rhythm when she indulged in the rumble of his laugh.

"I suppose so. Well, I'm sorry if I misjudged you. In the future, I'll remember to think before I speak. It's quite a nasty flaw, really. Can ruin the most serious conversations, due to the things that slip out of my mouth."

Anne cocked an eyebrow, happy to conform to the light-hearted tone.

"How awful! Perhaps you should get that checked out? So, can you give me an example of something you'd normally say, which would ruin a conversation?"

She could see the thoughts flutter though his mind, his discretion censoring inappropriate words or truths that would make him vulnerable.

"Well, suppose we were discussing an event you saw in the news, today. They were doing a small segment about a woman who's celebrating her 100th birthday. She has a cat and a dog and enjoys The Price Is Right. And you begin to ask for my opinion about this phenomenon. And before I know, I blurt out that sometimes, when it's quiet and I take a moment to think, I remember that I miss your laugh. And your smile."

Wentworth's voice grew progressively lower as he continued to talk, though his eyes never strayed. The sun had finally vanished and the sky looked like the painful close-up of a bruise, not quite black and not quite blue. Anne's eyes widened, shock running up and down her veins, stamping out her senses like cleats against supple ground.

"My, I guess that _is_ a very serious problem, indeed. Imagine if I was the one with this problem and you were on the receiving end. I suppose we'd be talking about politics and the world and all the injustices of different governments. And just when you're about to ask a question, I suddenly say that I never stop remembering that I miss you."

"Then you should be grateful that I'm the one with this problem. But don't feel too bad. As the years go by, I learn how to deal with it better. I think that I've almost got a hold on it. Though, I've been known to slip-up now and again," Wentworth teased.

"Oh, I don't doubt it. You seem like you've got it under control."

"Thank you."

"Speaking of the news, did you hear that Elliot has returned? Mrs. Russell confessed that he's been looking for me."

Wentworth subtly clenched his jaw, his back teeth grinding into the bottom set. His hands returned to the warmth of his pockets.

"Really? You must be glad to hear that. Will you be meeting up any time soon? I'm sure he'll want to know about Louisa's condition."

His tone matched the crisp temperature that had snuck upon the beach, each syllable rough like gnarled wood that has been smoothed with worn sandpaper.

"I don't know. I don't even know where he's staying. But it shouldn't be hard to find him. And he knows that I'm staying at the hotel. I expect to hear from him in the upcoming week."

"Hmm. Well, I don't really know Elliot, other than what I've observed. But it's safe to say that he'll be glad to see you."

"Should I give him your regards?"

Wentworth smirked, chuckling for a brief second.

"If you want. Though I suppose it won't make a difference whether or not you do," he nonchalantly remarked.

"I'm sure he'll appreciate it, nevertheless," Anne statically assured.

"Now, I don't mean to insult his character, but he seemed to leave in a rush after Louisa went to the hospital. As I understand it, Mr. Welles is not a blood relative, but a relative all the same. So, why would he feel the need to leave so quickly? I can understand if he had a personal matter, but what could take precedent over Louisa's situation?" he wondered.

Wentworth's words were intended to spark a heated debate that Anne did not feel the need to encourage.

"I think that's a matter entirely relevant to Elliot. If he feels the need to tell me, then he will. If not, then I won't pester him about it. Just like your personal affairs are your own business. If you feel the need to tell me about where you've gone or who you've seen that day, then I'll listen. But I won't dig for details."

"Elliot is family. He has an obligation to your _family_, Anne. Whether or not he thinks it's important, is totally irrelevant," Wentworth ardently persisted.

"For Christ's sake Frederick, you're making a big deal out of nothing! Neither of us can say why Elliot left or cite the exact circumstances."

"Oh, you don't always have to be nice. You know I'm right, at least to some degree. I don't know if I can respect someone who walks out on their family, without reasonable cause," he snapped.

Anne obnoxiously exhaled through her nose, shook her head and then began to turn on her heel.

"We can't ever talk without arguing, can we? You want things to be different and so do I! Believe me, I do. Look, I'm going to head back to my room. It's getting cold and I didn't bring my jacket."

"Anne."

Anne thought she would storm off into the incipient twilight, turning her back on Frederick and successfully showing that she was not wounded, but irritated. But before Anne could fully execute her self-assured and strong finish, she felt Frederick's hand tightly grip her forearm. She knew what would happen before she could recognize it. The chill of the wind seemed to disappear, the sky enveloping her body like a cloak. She was falling but it was all right and as she felt herself bleed into the dusk, nothing else mattered.

Frederick Wentworth had finally kissed Anne Elliot.


	17. Back To You

Words would be an ill and unworthy method to express her amplified emotions, but they would have to do. They were staring at the water, watching as early twilight shimmied across the horizon, rippling like spilt milk over a countertop. Everything felt as though it were in its right place. There'd always been an ache in the hollow of her heart, something that established its presence with each inhale and exhale. But as soon as Frederick had kissed her, the hole filled up, an open grave filled with dirt.

She leaned into his embrace, placid though still a little restless, as though she'd taken up residence in the eye of a hurricane. Everything was quite peaceful, but she knew it'd be a bit naïve to automatically assume that it would remain that way. There were still things to figure out, apologies to repeat, memories to recall. However, this moment was worthy of its own praise and admiration. Bringing up the past felt too much like a long goodbye and Anne was tired of takeoffs and departures.

"People will start to wonder where we went. Especially Mrs. Russell. She'll have a field day," she speculated.

Frederick snorted, approaching the circumstances with waning amusement, like a joke that's been repeated too many times.

"I don't care. And Mrs. Russell always has something to say. Let her say whatever she wants. She enjoys the sound of her own voice."

Anne laughed, feeling a bit guilty for criticizing her own relatives, but happy to add cutting remarks to Frederick's assault.

"I won't disagree with you on that. She's always liked to hear the sound of her own chatter. With an audience, it's even better."

"Well, I blame that need to hear her own sermons for keeping us apart. I feel like we've wasted useless time trying to avoid each other. Before I kissed you, you can't imagine how nervous I was. Kind of pathetic, really," he chuckled.

Anne turned around, careful not to smash her nose or forehead into Frederick's face. She had no idea that Frederick had experienced jilted nerves; he'd always radiated this intimidating sense of self-assured confidence and competence. Here she was, believing that she'd looked like such a fool, fumbling over her own words and getting tangled up in her own emotions. Yet he'd been in the same boat, debating the pros and cons of his actions, second guessing his choices.

"Nervous? Frederick Wentworth? Are you feeling all right?"

He rolled his eyes, taking the jab as a playful sign of affection.

"I think I had every right to be nervous, considering our past interactions."

"Past interactions? Surely, I must have been embarrassingly transparent. I was angry with you, but most importantly, each time we met, I was reminded of the anger I harbored towards myself," she frankly confessed.

He gazed down at her for a second or so, analyzing the truth of her statement and the exposed vulnerability that followed. With satisfaction, he realized the significance of the deconstruction of her intentions and emotional motivations. He kissed her with surprising tenderness, his face hovering in front of her own, his feathery eyelashes brushing against the apples of her cheeks. He lingered a moment or so, running his mouth over her bottom lip, causing Anne to utter a barely audible sigh.

"Darling, if I had known, I would have kissed you much sooner."

"I'm sorry, you know," she brokenly whispered.

He pulled back a bit, searching for the answer, knowing the explanation before she continued.

"For what?"

"For everything. For breaking the engagement. For listening to my father and my sister and Mrs. Russell. For saying too little. For saying too much. For not saying I love you enough."

He gave a soft laugh, touched at the mixture of sentimental nostalgia and earnest shame.

"Well, that's all I really need to know, isn't it? I'm ready to make a fresh start. I've come to cherish the memories of the past, but I'm anticipating the future. A future with you. That is, if _you're_ ready."

Anne nodded without a shred of hesitation, her hand reaching up to stroke the side of his face. Her fingers danced from the ridge of his brow to the profile of his strong jaw, delicately absorbing his skin as though it were fragile.

"When we were in college, I thought I was ready. Now I know I wasn't. But I've grown up and now I know what I want."

Frederick didn't bother to ask, but rose his eyebrow.

"You," she melodiously affirmed.

"I'm glad to hear that my feelings are reciprocated. It makes what I'm going to say much easier," he lightly replied.

Anne smiled, resting her head in the crook of his neck, like she was placing a sacred heirloom on a special shelf.

"Oh?"

"Marry me."

Anne's breath caught in her throat and she coughed, a forceful whirl of extreme nirvana sweeping through her body, gliding through each vein like the blade of a box cutter. Someone had opened the gates and her once clear head was now swollen with flashes of images, white dresses and wedding bands, bells ringing in her ears. Her surprise was not meant to be read as fear or doubt. It only made sense to skip the very long engagement and plunge into the short walk down the altar. They'd waited for too long to admit feelings that had ceased to change; why prolonge the ultimate step their feet were prepared to take?

With this shock came the realization that she'd learned to base this decision on her personal convictions, rather than the opinions of her family. Mrs. Russell's voice was not booming in the back of her head, citing Frederick's faults. Her sister's distinct chirp did not surface; her answer would be founded solely on the strength of her rationale. It was equally liberating and relieving.

"Yes, yes, and a thousand times yes," she declared, fighting the urge to cry.

He kissed her with all the joy his words would fail to express, his embrace protective and simultaneously yearning. He was not willing to compromise or settle. He could easily anticipate the dissent from the Elliot family, but he was prepared to combat the nonstop assault of their loaded guns. Anne was in his arms and had agreed to marry him. He didn't need much more.

The breeze would have caused considerable discomfort to the majority of patrons, but Frederick hardly noticed the chill licking at the back of his neck. This was here and this was now and he would give anything to stay in the moment forever.

"I think you may have to say it a thousand times, just so it'll sink in," he teased, his lips brushing against her ear.

She tugged on the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer, erasing the short personal space he'd returned.

"Yes, yes, and yes."

Her hands slipped underneath the fabric of his shirt and his forehead rested upon her own.

"I'm going to be Mrs. Anne Wentworth."

"Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?" Frederick mused, unable to resist the tug of his suave grin.

"More than nice. Should we tell everyone?"

Anne knew he'd pick up on the vague anxiety without a detailed list of particular names.

"If you really want to," he offered.

Her silence confirmed her need to share the news out of familial obligation, but the desire to reveal it at a later date.

"You know, I don't think I'll need that jacket anymore," Anne buoyantly noted.

Frederick's grin widened, if that were all possible. He nuzzled her cheek, tightening his lax grip. He delivered a chaste kiss on the tip of her nose, gazing at her with a combination of adoration and admiration. Frederick had finally regained what he'd initially lost.

Anne's cheeks flushed with color, her entire body burning with ecstasy and white hot self-autonomy. She sat on the beach, savoring the crash of the waves and the heat of Frederick's inhales and proceeding exhales, bathing in the afterglow of rightfully deserved liberation. It would be useless and redundant to expand upon the aftermath of their reunion.

It would appear beside the point to mention that Louisa finally was allowed to go home, awake though still in the painstakingly slow process of full recovery. Because she did. And it would be meaningless to say that the wedding continued as planned and Anne happily floated across the ballroom floor with Frederick, her relatives subtly staring- because she did and they did. And it would be most pointless to also inform the readers that Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Wentworth eloped and said their vows in Paris, because they did. On the whole, what matters most is the actual catalyst to these events, the kiss that sparked the fire and not the fire itself.

Nothing could shake Anne's amiable disposition, as she felt completely connected and united with Frederick, yet finally independent at the same time.

**Fin.**

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A/N: Well, that's it! Thank you for reading and reviewing. I'm very glad that many people enjoyed this story and thought it was true to the original characters. _Persuasion_ is one of my favorite Austen novels and I'd be truly disappointed if people thought my writing was a disgrace to her works. Once again, thanks for reading! 


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